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PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Alfred Noyes
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, October 28, 2011 |
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Read poems about / on: daughter, purple, dark, red, hair, dog, moon, sunset, wind, horse, sky, death, winter, kiss, light, silence, rose, tree, warning
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Comments about this poem (The Highwayman
by
Alfred Noyes
) |
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Sagar Shelar (2/11/2012 9:32:00 AM)
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No words to say, no sentence to praise.
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Hayato Ono (12/16/2011 7:54:00 PM)
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An enthralling poem
Love it
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T. R. Crissian (11/29/2011 1:54:00 PM)
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Oh, how this poem is powerful! So strong with the feelings it creates.....every time I read it I shiver. Whether it's a shiver of excitement or fright I still love it! ! ! Oh, such a poem.... *sigh*
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Kate Summers (11/2/2011 3:42:00 PM)
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This poem... It gives me a shiver. A good shiver, though. The singer Loreena McKennitt put this to music, and her voice makes the words come alive. Look it up, it's amazing! I love this poem so much, one of my favourites.
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Adam whiston (7/17/2011 10:10:00 AM)
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My favourite poem... always breaks my heart when i read it.
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Sarah Taylor (2/25/2011 6:56:00 AM)
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I read this a few years ago in primary school and I loved it then, a really good poem with a really good rhythm!
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Budz Sappal (2/11/2011 6:29:00 AM)
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the poem is good and our teacher love this poem! ! !
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Threa Rae Tudas (2/10/2011 10:55:00 PM)
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The poem, HIGHWAYMAN, is one of the best poem I ever read because the story is so peculiar..Its unusual for a robber to love & court a red-lipped & black-eyed girl who he never thought would love him back more than he showed his love to Bess..I WILL NEVER FORGET THIS POEM..
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Cs Vishwanathan (1/7/2011 7:22:00 AM)
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This is one of those poems which are always remembered by every school- boy/girl who had read it. I also do. Another poem by Noyes which I remember reading is the one of Robin Hood. One of the reasons for remembering these schooldays poems is their expert versification due to which their rhythm and lilt become embedded in memory and remain part of our boyhood consciousness.
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Christopher Jones (10/7/2010 10:20:00 AM)
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I first came across this poem at the age of 9 or 10 when my junior school teacher read it out to the class. He read it to the rhythm of a horse trotting along the road and I immediately fell in love, both with the poem and with horses – not to mention highwaymen.
Two or three years later, in senior school, my new English teacher also read this poem to the class. I can only assume that this particular teacher was not very fond of English Literature, (even though this was supposed to be his subject) as he read it in a very bored, mono-syllabic voice with absolutely no rhythm or inclination whatsoever. I thanked God that I had already been aware of this poem as, if I had relied on this particular teacher, I would never have experienced the true value of such a wonderful work of art.
Now, in later life, I have heard it recited many times (always with feeling and rhythm) and I have recited it to others. It never fails to move me and, I hope, others get the same pleasure. Unlike some other contributors, I don’t mind too much about the odd word being incorrect, it does not really detract from the beauty, the sadness and the joy portrayed in Noyes’s original work.
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