The Highway Man

I don't remember a lot about my 5th grade year in school with Mrs. McKay.  I think she made us work harder than I had in previous years, and I suppose it was good for me, but I didn't particularly enjoy it.  I do remember, though, the day she told us the poem, "The Highway Man."  It tickled my imagination, not only the story in the poem, but the idea that someone could memorize something that long.  I decided I wanted to memorize it, too. 

I found the poem in an old poetry book and began to memorize.  It was simpler than I thought.  The rhythm and rhyme made remembering easy, and since the poem tells a story it all fell into place quite naturally.  In less than a week I knew the opening and main part of the poem by heart, and the ending just repeated the opening, so soon I could recite the whole thing.  That was quite an accomplishment for a kid who thought she wasn't particularly smart, (I always got passing grades on my report cards, but never excelling.)  I was pretty proud of myself, and so was Mom.  She made everyone listen as I recited the poem to our family, then again when we visited Grandma Johnson and Grandpa and Grandma Russell.  That was the end of my performances, but not the end of my recitations. 

I enjoyed that poem.  I enjoyed the story, the drama, the rhythm, the sound.  "Clop clop.  Clop clop," played in my head as the highway man came down the ribbon of moonlight and over the brow of the hill, and I often found myself reciting the poem in my head.  I discovered it was a great way to occupy my brain and keep my mind from thinking about things I didn't want to think about.  If I was scared about going somewhere I repeated the poem in my head so I could stay calm.  When I was nervous, uncomfortable, worried or sad I recited the poem and it helped me forget the trouble.  I remember vividly sitting in the dentists chair, my mouth aching because it was so wide open, the high pitched squeal of the drill whining in my ears, my eyes closed so I wouldn't have to look up and see myself reflected in the dentist's glasses, telling myself "The Highwayman" over and over again to keep my mind occupied until I was finally done.  It helped.

I used to worry that I would forget the poem, but I recited it so many times when I was young that it seems to be indelibly printed into my brain.  There are a few stanza's where I sometimes get turned around, and I know I mix up or leave out a word or two here and there, but for the most part the poem is still mine.  I don't repeat it very often anymore.  Maybe once in a great while when I'm bored, and occasionally when I'm trying to find something to entertain my kids with, or when I've run out of stories to tell a class I'm substituting, but often it will be two or three years before I think about it again.  So today, even thought the poem is very long, I'm going to write it.  You don't have to read it, I know it will take a long time, but for my personal satisfaction I need to tell it one more time, just to prove to myself that I can still do it.  Please excuse the mistakes, if I wanted it to be perfect I'd cut and paste from an official rendition.  This is just the way it is recorded in my memory.

The Highway Man
   by Alfred Noyes

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 a highway man came riding,
Riding, riding,
A Highway man came riding
Up to an old inn door.

He'd a french cock hat on his forehead,
A bunch of lace at his chin.
A coat of claret velvet
And breeches of brown doe skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle
His boots were up to his thighs.
He road with a jeweled twinkle;
His pistol butt a twinkle,
His rapier hilt a twinkle
Under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clanged
In the dark in 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 landlords dark eyed daughter.
Bess, the landlords daughter
Plaiting a dark red love knot
Into her long black hair.

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 moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened
And he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart,
I'm after a prize tonight.
But I'll 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 the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in his stirrups
But scarce could reach her hand.
But she loosed her hair in the casement,
His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet cascade of perfume
Came tumbling over his breast.
And he kissed it's waves in the moonlight.
Oh sweet, black waves in the moonlight
Then tugged on his reins in the moonlight
And galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning.
He did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset
Before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a Gypsy's ribbon
Over the purple moor,
A red coat troop came marching.
Marching, marching,
King George's men came marching
Up to the old inn door.

They spoke no word to the land lord
They drank his ale instead,
But they gagged and bound his daughter
To the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at attention
Their muskets at the side.
There was death at every window,
But hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see through her casement
The road that he would ride.


They had bound her 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,
And she heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by the moonlight.
Watch for me by the moonlight.
I'll come to thee by the moonlight
Though hell should bar the way."


She twisted her hands behind her,
But all the knots held good.
She twisted and strained in the darkness
Till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.
She twisted and turned 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.

The tip of one finger touched it,
She strove no more for the rest.
Up she stood at attention,
With the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk them hearing,
She would not strive again,
For the road lay blank in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins in the moonlight
Throbbed to her loves refrain.

Clop clop, clop clop.
Had they hear it?  The horses hoofs ringing load and clear.
Clop clop, clop clop,
Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight,
Over the brow of the hill,
A highway man came riding,
Riding, riding,
The red coats looked at their priming,
She stood up strait and still.


Clop clop in the echoing silence
Clop clop in the frosty night.
Nearer he came, and nearer
Her face burnt 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.

He turned, he spurred him westward.
He did not know who stood,
Bowed with her head o'r the musket,
Drenched in her own red blood.
Not till the dawn did he hear it
And slowly blanched to hear,
How Bess, the landlords daughter,
The landlords red lipped daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight,
And died in the darkness there.

Back he spurred like a madman
Shreeking a curse to the sky.
The white road smoking behind him,
His rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurrs in 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 a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still, a winters night they say,
When the wind is in the trees.
And 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 highway man comes riding
Up to an old inn door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs
In the dark inn yard
And 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 landlords black eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love knot,
Into her long black hair.