No, what I need is a proper narrative, with proper characters... who comes this way that I can write about? A highwayman - that's a start, there were probably highwaymen in this area back in the past, there could be a highway man and a lawyer, yes, a lawyer bold a-coming from the city.

The lawyer is called Will Turner and he is coming back home after having run off and made his fortune to re-make the aquiantance of the young woman to whom he pledged his troth.

The highwayman was the bousum friend of Will Turner during his youth, and furthermore he loves he same girl, Sally Wright, the Landlord's daughter at the Coach and Horses.

What are you doing up here John? So near to those farmhouses you'll get in trouble and so close to home, you might get recognised... Before you've always gone down the thicket, but the militia are too thick and there's rough men out there that told you they don't want the competition, they told you this weren't the right sport for you, I don't know why you didn't listen.

He had gave it up a while of course, but not for too long.

He waits underneath a patch of oaks, hooves he hears, squelching towards him at a fair pace.

He squints along the road lit dimly by the moonlight.

He thinks he sees a shadow moving, but it fades, the thud of hoves grows louder, till they sound like they are all around him. Then they are gone, the cove must have slipped by in the shadows. He rides out into the road and looks down it- not a breathing soul.

"Fine evening ain't it" says an emotionless voice.

"Tolerably fine " he says casually turning round to meet the stranger.

"John Wheeler?"

"'im I be, to those what's wanting me, and there's damn few as what do."

"Well don't you know me?"

"Well dam-me if I don't"

"Is that all you got to say to me, after all these years."

"Will blast you, that ain't no greeting neither, I'm right glad to see you, but you suprised me, that is all."

Will rode off into the cold night leaving the highwaymen silent in shock.

Hurriedly we go further up the road and there's John Wheeler again dressed more humble this time taking a mare through her paces,

He went at a trot past the frost covered misty pasture with the dark hills watching in the distance, past the silent dark copse, past the hall and back to the master's stables, not a soul did he meet, everyone was inside or busy elsewhere, an oppresive feeling of dread hung over him. He felt sure someone was watching him, telling him to think again, he thought he saw in his mind's eye the shape of the gallows.
He unbridled the horse and hung up the saddle over the door, but his mind is not on the present, it is focused on the next evening.

We need not go in to the details of his work at the stable, or the old uncle who he lived with, or the vainglorious day dreams that took up his thoughts during the short dull dreary days. There is no time for that, we must be away, we must be after the scoundrel, he's abroad tonight, which is by now tommorow night how time hurtles by like a thief on horseback upon the road to London.

He left the road onto a farm track and back on to the road again to avoid the turnpike, inspite of the turnpike trust the ground underneath his horses hooves was poor. He fords the swollen but still shallow-ish river, up the slope to the Coach and Horses.

John struggled with the door for nearly a minute, when he finally pushed it open in a state of frustration, he found the inn was crowded round and the atmosphere merry, in the center propping up the counter with a contented expression of his face was Will Turner in a fine green coat, strikingly better turned out than he was the last time he was present in that establishment.

He did not acknowledge John, while he was the center of attention neither did he seem talkative, even to Sally who was clearly put out at his demeanour and made herself busy somewhere else.

Sally being the reason for John's journey, and as he was jealous of the popularity of his recently arrived friend soon drained his mug and left.

He fords the river again and rides up past the Rose and Crown and through the village, at length he turned off into a lane and came to a halt, his horse snorted in disgust at the malicious, cold wind rustling in the long neglegted hedge by the road. He pulled his cloak around him and watched and waited. In the distance he saw a coach lamp, he watched, but soon saw that it was the mail-coach. Impatient, he made off toward Windsor, the moon came out to light his way and the wind suddenly stopped, the only sound to reach his ears were the hoofbeats of his horse.

Suddenly without explaination, the hat flew off his head, he slowed to a walk and stopped, he dismounted, but could find neither his hat nor the cause of it's dissapearence.

Up by the church, he first became aware of the rider coming from behind him. Something about that rider unsettled him and in a strange panic he galloped now along the road that was now white as a pearl in the otherworldly moonlight, as a result of the speed he felt the cold biting through his clothes.

The rider behind him had taken a route around the church and emerged from the lane on his right, now surrounded only by open country, he rode abreast of John. He was dressed in green and over his face a white hankerchief.

His horse edged into John's and with a sudden push the stranger sent him sprawling onto the ground.

When he came to his senses, his assailant had gone, and his horse (really his uncle's horse) had bolted. The church bell rang somberly as he trudged back past the village pond. In the distance a dog barked.

When he arrived back at the Coach and Horses, it had grown mostly empty and the patrons there were talking quietly.

The old blacksmith greeted him, "John boy you heard that Will Turner's bin found dead?"

"What? and him not here two hour ago?"

"Robbed and murdered, two days ago near Hounslow, we just 'erd it from the mail-man."

"But he was here weren't he?"

"He can't ha' been."

"You must have seem him?"

"I see'd summin, but as soon as the mail-man come to the door he'd vanished and I never knowed Will do that."

John ran out into the night, still streaked with mud and blood from after his fall down to earth and from then on he never was seen at the Coach and Horses and never cared to ride out alone at night ever after.

Will was not seen again, apart from later on that night:

I must be going, no longer staying,
The shining Thames I have to cross.
Oh, I must be guided without a stumble
Into the arms of my true love.

When he came to his true love's window
He knelt down gently upon a stone,
And it's through a pane he whispered slowly:
My dear girl, are you alone?

She rose her head from her down-soft pillow,
And snowy were her lilly-white breasts,
Saying: Who is there, who is there at my bedroom window,
Disturbing me from my long night's rest?

Oh, I'm your lover, and I can't uncover,
I pray you rise, love, and let me in,
For I am tired from the night's long journey,
and I am wet unto the skin.

Now this young girl rose and put on her clothing.
Till she quickly let her own true love in.
Oh they kissed, shook hands and embraced each other,
Till that long night was near an end.

Willie dear, O dearest Willie,
Where is that colour you'd some time ago?
O Sally dear, the cold clay has changed me,
I am but the ghost of your Willie O.

Then O cock, O cock, O handsome cockerel,
I pray you not crow until it's day.
For your wings I'll make of the very first beaten gold,
And your comb I'll make of the silver ray.

But the cock it crew and it crew so fully.
And it crew three hours before it was the day.
And before it was day my love had to go far away,
Not by the light of the moon nor the light of the day.

When she saw her love disappearing
The tears down her pale cheeks in streams did flow.
He said, Weep no more for me, dear Sally,
I am no more your Willie O.

Then it's Willie dear, O dearest Willie,
When shall I see you again?
When the fish they fly, love, and the sea runs dry, love,
And the rocks they melt in the heat of the sun.

- the Grey Cock/The Lovers Ghost