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up to the old inn-door.
The highwayman comes riding
Riding riding
The highwayman comes riding
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
when the wind is in the trees
they say
And still on a winter's night
with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And he lay in his blood in the highway
Down like a dog in the highway
When they shot him down in the highway
wine-red was his velvet coat
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
shrieking a curse to the sky
he spurred like a madman
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