{"id":15568,"date":"2022-01-08T19:25:18","date_gmt":"2022-01-09T00:25:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.gornahoor.net\/?p=15568"},"modified":"2022-01-08T19:25:18","modified_gmt":"2022-01-09T00:25:18","slug":"the-moon-was-a-ghostly-galleon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/?p=15568","title":{"rendered":"The Moon was a ghostly Galleon"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>
\nThe Highwayman<\/em>, a romantic ballad poem written by Alfred Noyes, is considered one of the best British poems of all time. The imagery is tangible, the story dramatic, and even if you anticipate the ending, the poem is thrilling.<\/p>\n

In a sense, the highwayman is a criminal, but not petty. After all, he could afford a horse, he dressed impeccably, and had a certain nobility in his bearing, certainly more than all the king’s men. That made him a romantic figure, perhaps more like a Robin Hood than a petty thief. He was not beholden to the system, so he made his own way.<\/p>\n

Does that answer why would the landlord\u2019s daughter love a criminal? Is it because conventional minds can\u2019t reach her soul, but only the outsider, the adventurer? Someone who doesn’t play on the safe side of the sidewalk?<\/p>\n

The Lady of Shalott<\/a> also loved a knight, the man who makes his own way in life. Elaine and Bess each loved her knight totally, unconditionally, and irrationally.<\/p>\n

How do lovers meet today? On a dating app, matched by a computer? They go for long walks on the beach, watch the same TV shows, and bring their dogs to the doggie park. And they love until they get bored of each other.<\/p>\n

But the dating app does not ask if you prefer death to a life without love. Elaine died from lack of being loved by Lancelot and Bess, the landlord\u2019s daughter, died from being loved too much by the highwayman. A life without love was inconceivable to them. And true love comes just once in a lifetime, so it must be seized.<\/p>\n

As you read the poem, read along with Loreena McKennitt’s recital, which is a work of art in itself (see below). She leaves out the last stanza which reveals that Bess and the highwayman continue to meet whenever the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. Their souls are entangled, so not even death can separate them.<\/p>\n

The Highwayman<\/h2>\n
\n
\n
\nPART ONE<\/strong><\/p>\n

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
\nThe moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
\nThe road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
\nAnd the highwayman came riding\u2014
\n Riding\u2014riding\u2014
\nThe highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
\nA coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
\nThey fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
\nAnd he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
\n His pistol butts a-twinkle,
\nHis rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.<\/p>\n

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
\nHe tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
\nHe whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
\nBut the landlord\u2019s black-eyed daughter,
\n Bess, the landlord\u2019s daughter,
\nPlaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.<\/p>\n

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
\nWhere Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
\nHis eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
\nBut he loved the landlord\u2019s daughter,
\n The landlord\u2019s red-lipped daughter.
\nDumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cOne kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I\u2019m after a prize to-night,
\nBut I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
\nYet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
\nThen look for me by moonlight,
\n Watch for me by moonlight,
\nI\u2019ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.\u201d<\/p>\n

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
\nBut she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
\nAs the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
\nAnd he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
\n (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
\nThen he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.\n <\/p><\/div>\n

\nPART TWO<\/strong><\/p>\n

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
\nAnd out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
\nWhen the road was a gypsy\u2019s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
\nA red-coat troop came marching\u2014
\n Marching\u2014marching\u2014
\nKing George\u2019s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.<\/p>\n

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
\nBut they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
\nTwo of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
\nThere was death at every window;
\n And hell at one dark window;
\nFor Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.<\/p>\n

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
\nThey had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
\n\u201cNow, keep good watch!\u201d and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say\u2014
\nLook for me by moonlight;
\n Watch for me by moonlight;
\nI\u2019ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!<\/p>\n

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
\nShe writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
\nThey stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
\nTill, now, on the stroke of midnight,
\n Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
\nThe tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!<\/p>\n

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
\nUp, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
\nShe would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
\nFor the road lay bare in the moonlight;
\n Blank and bare in the moonlight;
\nAnd the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love\u2019s refrain.<\/p>\n

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
\nTlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
\nDown the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
\nThe highwayman came riding\u2014
\n Riding\u2014riding\u2014
\nThe red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.<\/p>\n

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
\nNearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
\nHer eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
\nThen her finger moved in the moonlight,
\n Her musket shattered the moonlight,
\nShattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him\u2014with her death.<\/p>\n

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
\nBowed, with her head o\u2019er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
\nNot till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
\nHow Bess, the landlord\u2019s daughter,
\n The landlord\u2019s black-eyed daughter,
\nHad watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.<\/p>\n

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
\nWith the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
\nBlood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
\nWhen they shot him down on the highway,
\n Down like a dog on the highway,
\nAnd he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.<\/p>\n

And still of a winter\u2019s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
\nWhen the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
\nWhen the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
\nA highwayman comes riding\u2014
\n Riding\u2014riding\u2014
\nA highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.<\/p>\n

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
\nHe taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
\nHe whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
\nBut the landlord\u2019s black-eyed daughter,
\n Bess, the landlord\u2019s daughter,
\nPlaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.\n <\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n

by Alfred Noyes<\/strong>, 1906\n <\/div>\n

\n

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He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there, but the landlord\u2019s black-eyed daughter. Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15574,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[120],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15568","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15568","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=15568"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15568\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15579,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15568\/revisions\/15579"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/15574"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=15568"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=15568"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gornahoor.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=15568"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}