Green life time

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, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin, They fit him 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. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed into 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.