This is New Wisco Weekend. I'm Lisa Hale. Normally at this time, we'd bring you a
musician from one of our other fantastic civic media shows like Nightlight with
Peach Waba or Max and Gradio. But today, in honor of the spooky season in Halloween,
I'd like to share with you my favorite poem. It's called The Highwayman by Alfred
Noise. The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a
ghastly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over
the purple mower and the highwayman came riding, riding, riding. The highwayman
came riding up to the old end door. He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead and a
bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet and breeches of brown dough skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh and he rode with a
jeweled twinkle. His pistol butts a twinkle. His rapier hilt a twinkle under the
jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark in yard. He
tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked in barred. He whistled a
tune to the window, who should be waiting there, but the landlord's black eyed
daughter, best the landlord's daughter, flating a dark red love knot into her
long black hair. And dark in the dark ol' in yard, a stable wicket creaked, where
Tim, the Osler listened, his face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of
madness and his hair like moldy 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 Bonnie 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 hurry 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 stir-ups, he scarce could reach her hand, but she loosened
her hair in the casement, his face burnt like a brand, and as the black cascade
of perfume came tumbling over his breast, he kissed its waves in the moonlight. Oh
sweet black waves in the moonlight, then he tugged at the rain 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 indoor. 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 best could see through her casement the road that he would
ride. They had tied her up to attention with
minneas sniggering gests, they had bound a musket beside her, the muzzle beneath
her breast. Now keep a 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 rived her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat and 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 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, black in bare in the moonlight, and the blood of her
veins in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. Thought a lot, thought a lot, thought a lot,
thought a lot had they heard it, the horse who was ringing clear, thought a lot, thought a lot,
thought a lot in the distance, were they deaf that they did not hear, down the ribbon of moon night
over the brow of the hill, the highway man came riding, riding, riding, the red coats looked
to their priming, she stood up straight and still. Tadalat, tadalat in the frosty silence,
tadalat, tadalat 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, or the musket
drenched with her own blood. Not till the dawn, he heard it, and his face grew gray to hear,
how best 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 spurned like a madman shrieking a curse to the
sky, with the white road smoking behind him in his rapier brandish high. Blood red were his spurs
in the golden noon, red wine 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 more, a highway man comes riding, riding, riding, a highway man comes riding up to the old
indoor. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the darkened yard, he taps with his whip on the
shutters, but all is locked in barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting
there? But the landlord's black eyed daughter, best the landlord's daughter,
plating a dark red love knot into her long black hair.
Thank you for being a part of New Wiscoe Weekend, your look at huge pumpkins and Halloween.
New Wiscoe Weekend is written by Terry Bar and Lisa Hale, directed and produced by Lisa Hale.
Our lead correspondent is Terry Bar with features from Savannah,
Tomay Olsen, Peach Waba, and our commentator, Amanda Nimmer.
If you have a story you'd like to hear covered, please feel free to email anytime,
lisa.hale at civicmedia.us. I'm civic media northeast Wisconsin Bureau Chief Lisa Hale for
WISS and WGBW News. Be unstoppable.
