La voce di Loreena McKennitt ha l’indubbio potere di evocare atmosfere magiche e sospese nel tempo.
Una delle mie canzoni preferite è The HighWaysman: questa tristissima ballata, ammantata di disperato romanticismo, affonda le radici nella tradizione dei racconti di fantasmi.
In essa è narrata la tragica vicenda di due amanti, che culmina col disperato e terribile sacrificio d’amore di Bess, che si uccide per salvare ithe Highwaysman, innominato soldato francese, poi ucciso dagli inglesi mentre tenta invano la fuga, e del fantasma di lui che nelle notti di liuna piena continua a visitarel luogo ove avrebbe dovuto incontrare la sua amata…
Il testo è, di fatto, una poesia di Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door
He’d a French-cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way”
He rose upright in the stirrups; 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
Waves in the moonlight, (oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!)
The he tugged at his rein in the moonlight,
And galloped away to the west
He did not come at 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,
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door
They said no word to the landlord, the drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window,
Hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with
the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” And they kissed her
She heard the dead man say
Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight
I’ll come to thee by the 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 of blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by
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!
Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance!
Were they deaf they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill
The highwayman came riding,
The red-coats looked to their priming! She
stood up straight and still!
Tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot, 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 she stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket,
drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness
And back he spurred, like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and
his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were the spurs in the golden moon;
Wine-red was his velvet 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 the bunch of lace at his
Still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
A highwayman comes riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Ed eccovi la versione Live: