General Chat

JoyLouise, it is my Thread and I will allocate space on an 'as needs' basis :-D :-D :-D

Listen to him.....all "It's my thread"......Power....not good for some.... :-D :-D

Mr Trump consults with me :-D :-D

Strewth, Dermot, leave room for us. :-0

Allan, I likes moy space. :-D

Luckily (unlike you two men), I can never remember all the verses of long poems but here's a wonderfully descriptive verse of The Highwayman. I like it so I can remember it.

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

Allan, I'd give Mr Trump plenty of space if I were you. :-0

Allan has plenty of space to give he says his head is full of it.... :-D

I may change my name to Bess so I can climb up behind the highwayman on his horse and gallop away as in romantic times of yore (yore?).

But will he still love me, will he still like me now I'm 64 + ?

Allan, I know someone who had a head scan and they found nothing. :-D :-D :-D

Twasn't you, was it? :-S

I'm thinking the Highwayman is a tad older so you should be fine :-D

Now that evokes memories; I had to learn at least part of that poem at school, as did my daughter many years later


The Highwayman


By Alfred Noyes










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 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 inn-yard.


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.





And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked


Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.


His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,


But he loved the landlord’s daughter,


The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.


Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—





“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,


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 moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”





He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,


But she loosened her hair in 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,


(O, 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 in the dawning. He did not come at noon;


And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of 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 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 muzzle beneath her breast!


“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—


Look for me by moonlight;


Watch for me by moonlight;


I’ll come to thee by 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!





The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.


Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.


She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;


For the road lay bare in the moonlight;


Blank and bare in the moonlight;


And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.





Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;


Tlot-tlot; 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-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-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 who stood


Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!


Not till the dawn he heard it, and 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 his spurs in 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 a bunch of lace at his throat.





. . .





And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,


When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon 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.





Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.


He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.


He whistles 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.

Show off....you googled that really didn't you... :-D :-D

I guess he did, Caroline, cos the only one I can recall ever remembering it all was my Dad. He was excused gardening lessons (which he hated) and given a poetry book to learn from every week. If he could recite the chosen poem to the teacher at the end of the session, he was excused the following week.

He hated gardening so consequently knew lots of poems. :-D

Of course I googled it! :-| But it didn't alter the fact that I had to learn part of it. Then when my daughter came home with a copy of the poem nearly forty six years later, what a shock :-D

Off to sort some bland lunch out. :-D

Off to sort some bland lunch out. :-D

Gawd, I'm losing the plot here - twice over. :-0

This thread is beginning to lose it's blandness and becoming quite stimulating!

I may have to report it as it does not live up to the title.

I'm now off to have my normal dose of that sedative, TV

Never Allan...life on these boards will never be too bland....I went off for an hour came back to find at least two of my threads RR'd !!

Seven drawfs sat in a bath feeling happy. Happy got out so they all felt grumpy

There is a reason for posting his :-D

:-D :-D