The sign at the inn swung like a gallows,

the light lay low on the heath.

Old Ben was in his settle

sucking baccy through his teeth.

 

Puddles formed on the flagstones

where a one - eyed dog stood watch;

underneath a ragged sky

the inn was dark as a crotch,

 

except for a fire - lit window

that glowed like a winter star,

through which a cluster of faces took in

a man who stood at the bar.

 

They surrounded the place with pistols drawn

in the blackest of capes under the eaves

that dripped and dripped like widow's tears

from their hats and from their sleeves.

 

The man at the bar wore a coat and sword,

his hair held tight in a lavish bow,

all about him was still with fear,

like the shadows behind his back.

 

And in that silence that marks despair

he sensed his luck was running short,

and crossed himself with a muttered prayer

as the thought of a maiden's loving sport.

 

The swordsman turned and left the inn,

not single word he'd uttered,

and in the draught a candle went out,

"good riddance," the barman muttered.

 

And so into the reckless night

they took him far across the moor,

this royalist they so despised

to face the bastard common law.