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.

 

—“The Highwayman,”

Loreena McKennitt