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 He'd a french cocked hat on his forehead And a bunch of lace at his chin He'd a coat of the claret velvet And breeches of brown doe-skin They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh And he rode with a jewelled twinkle His pistol butts a-twinkle His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky