STORY 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 fitted with never a wrinkle:
his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
his rapier hilt a-twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
under the jeweled sky.