Story The Highwayman- 1906 poem about Chad, Incel, & Stacy

[SilentSoup]

"The Highwayman" is a poem written in 1906 by Scotsman Alfred Noyes. It's one of the most famous English poems, and when I recently read it I was amazed at how it fits in with the whole blackpill incel thing.

It tells a short story about a "highwayman" (a Chad thug who robs people) who is in love with "Bess" (a Stacy), the landlords daughter. The poem starts with the Highwayman riding up on a horse to meet her. Unfortunately for Chad, there's someone listening in on his secret meeting.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

An Ostler looks after people's horses btw.
"His eyes were hollows of madness" = he's dead inside (LDAR)
"His face was white and peaked" "His hair like mouldy hay" = He's ugly
"But he loved the landlord's daughter" = The landlords daughter is his oneites, but she doesn't care about him... instead she's having a relationship with this crazy thug who makes a living robbing people (Chad!). She'd rather fuck a criminal brute than an incel.

So what's our incel buddy Tim do? He secretly lets the local authorities know that the Highwayman is in town, and they show up. Chad and Stacy both end up dead in the end (Stacy literally kills herself because she can't stand to be without Chad).

This reminds me a lot of the thot audit. Incels can be sneaky and use stuff like the rule of law as a mechanism to strike back at the bullying dominance of Chad and the shallow, whorish nature of Stacy. Tim can't take the Chad Highwayman in a fight but he can call the redcoats on him. Deal with that, asshole!

The poem is also a really interesting example of how normies rationalize everything... so this is a poem about a hardworking guy who learns that his true love is getting together with a thief so he calls the cops on him. But it's structured so the thief is a romantic hero and Tim is the villain. I think this is what normies care about, being handsome and dashing and high-status automatically makes you the "good guy". If you're born a low-status ugly manlet you're the "villain" no matter what you do. It's a tough life, you're just shoveling horse shit and getting cucked by Chad, but at least sometimes you get a chance to strike back huh.

Incel stuff aside it's a pretty sounding poem. What do you guys think about it?

Full poem here (or just google it):

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—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 the 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.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
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.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
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 moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by 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 kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in 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—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her 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 muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by 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 or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
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!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-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 who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and 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 there.

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 his spurs in the golden noon; 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 a bunch of lace at his throat.

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.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles 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.

 

[BlkPillPres]

Great post, verin interesting, I like the comparison to the Thot Audit, I've always thought that the best "ER's" are things like that, non violent yet effective, because then normies don't get the cope of "punishing the wrong doer", they just have to take the Thot Audit and suck it, there's nothing they can do. Unlike a mass shooting where the incel is forced to kill himself or go to jail, they don't get a "consolation prize", its all loss of them and all win for us, we need more "Thot Audits".

I'm surprised I'm the first comment

I find it sad how amazing posts like these barely get any attention or replies, well thought out and heart felt, but let some mashocistic fuck make another - "You will never experience X" thread and watch retards flood the thread endlessly repeating "mogs me" or "its over", shit gets tiring, a lot of users aren't coming here to think, learn and converse with fellow incels, they are here literally just to feel bad, they seek out posts that will make them feel depressed, its some stockholm syndrome level BS.

 

[Cuyen]

mogs me

 

[PaulSmenis]

I find it sad how amazing posts like these barely get any attention or replies, well thought out and heart felt, but let some mashocistic fuck make another - "You will never experience X" thread and watch retards flood the thread endlessly repeating "mogs me" or "its over", shit gets tiring, a lot of users aren't coming here to think, learn and converse with fellow incels, they are here literally just to feel bad, they seek out posts that will make them feel depressed, its some stockholm syndrome level BS.

Good point. Most people are often too lazy to invest the effort to read, let alone reflect on the material and craft a thoughtful response.

I admit, I am usually one of those people.

Still, I agree with you in spirit.

I think this is what normies care about, being handsome and dashing and high-status automatically makes you the "good guy". If you're born a low-status ugly manlet you're the "villain" no matter what you do.

Sure...perceived morality is partly a function of fashionability.

 

[Gengar]

My English is not good enough for this poem. Sadly I cannot read it.