JOSEPHINE VANDORSA

I just saw this poem a few days ago, and I love it so much that I feel compelled to write and share this with you.
I first heard this poem sung in a song by Loreena McKennitt and found the story such a beautiful and sad one. The way the poem is delivered, with the music and Loreena's enchanting voice (when she sings, you can imagine a bard coming from far away, telling you a long forgotten story) makes this simply impeccable (my personal opinion)

This is the poem~
THE HIGHWAYMAN
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the 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 claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted 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 in the dark innyard,
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.

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall 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 the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! 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.

He did not come at the dawning; he did not come at noon,
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

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 of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the 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!
"now keep good watch!" And they kissed her.
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 writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
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!

Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
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 in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was 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 to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were the spurs i' 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 the bunch of lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.


After I had read this poem, I asked myself "What would I do if I were Bess?" At first glance, this may look like a foolish deed, to die for one you've met only once and barely knew. Yet as I brooded more on the question, I realized that I would do the same if I were the land lord's daughter; not out of the reason of love, but of the sense of obligation and bitter spite for the red cloaks. Perhaps Bess had thought that way, too, but linking this with love would make this story much more beautiful in a certain way. And the highway man's choice to return in vengeance for Bess also made this tragic love story all the more poignant. Imagine, the story would have made a very sharp turn if the highwayman chose otherwise, to flee instead, which would make him seem ungrateful and somehow even hateful. The author, Alfred Noyes, also did a very good job with imagery in this poem; it is as if I could find myself standing in the middle of the lonely purple moor, watching the highwayman pass by you in his fine raiment, the moment of romance he had with Bess, and feel the chill crawling up my spine as I see the group of red approaching from afar, hunting for the highwayman. And later I would find myself standing over the struggling Bess with blood tricking down her wrists into a small red pool on the wooden floor of the inn because of her efforts to help the man, and hear her last sigh right before the gunshot rang through the tranquil night. Lastly, feeling the highwayman's remorse and sorrow upon learning the death of Bess and coming back along with him, only to see him fall off his horse when the King George's men gave him the deadly shot. But he wasn't forgotten, for on cold winter nights, he would come by this moor once again, proud and handsome as ever, and the beautiful tragedy repeats itself once more before my eyes.

This is my opinion about the poem, and the reason I love it. I have always loved sad poems and tragedies, and this is one of the best I've ever seen.
I hope you would enjoy it, too.