TLF

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 Tom came trotting—
Trotting—trotting—
The Tom came trotting, up to the old bakery-door.

He’d a snood on his forehead, a beard at his chin,
A coat of the claret feathers, and thighs of scarlet-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His spurs were up to the thigh.
And he trot with a jewelled twinkle,
His beak a-twinkle,
His spurs a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark bakery-yard.
He tapped with his beak on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He gobble a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the baker’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the baker’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old bakery-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Armand the ostler listened. His face was pale and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the baker’s daughter,
The baker’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the gobbler say—

“One bagel, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back 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 wings outstretched. 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 flapped his wings in the moonlight, and trotted 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 bakery-door.

They said no word to the barker. 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 trot.

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.

Gobble Gobble Gobble ! Had they heard it? The gobbling ringing clear;
Gobble Gobble Gobble, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The Tom, came trotting—
trotting—trotting—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Gobble Gobble, in the frosty silence! Gobble Gobble, 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 baker’s daughter,
The baker’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, gobbling a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his beak brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his feathered 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 bunched beard 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 Tom comes trotting—
Trotting—trotting—
A Tom comes trotting, up to the old bakery-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark bakery-yard.
He taps with his beak on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He gobbling a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the baker’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the baker’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.