And he rode with a jeweled twinkle His rapier hilt a-twinkle His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon. They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest! They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!neyteonottiacrow.ga/a-pacifist-way-of-knowing-john-howard.php
The Highwayman (poem)
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! The trigger at least was hers!
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
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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 inndoor. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
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 moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
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 fo 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. 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! 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!
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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!
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The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for rest! Had they heard it?
This horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
The Highwayman a poem by Alfred Noyes
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!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
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