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 highwayman comes riding
Riding--riding--
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.


I'll quote you spooniest, if I may:


MOAR