The Rogue Legacy

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. And the road is a ribbon of moonlight o'er the purple moor: a highwayman comes riding - riding, riding - a highwayman comes riding, up to an old inn-door.

Over the cobbles, he clatters and clashes into the dark inn-yard. And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. But he pauses a moment and then whistles a tune to the window
And who should be waiting there?
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, plaiting a dark-red love-knot into her long black hair.

And she smiles at him, listening to him whistle by her window - like a bird at dawn.












Wasn't that so much more fun?