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The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
Riding- riding-
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
His pistol butts a-twinkle
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day
Watch for me by moonlight
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
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