Classic Poem

Gude Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane,
He has ridden oer moss and muir,
And he has grippet Hughie the Græme,
For stealing o the bishop's mare.

‘Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be!
Here hangs a broad sword by my side,
And if that thou canst conquer me,
The matter it may soon be tryed.’

‘I neer was afraid of a traitor thief;
Although thy name be Hughie the Græme,
I 'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,
If God but grant me life and time.’

‘Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope,
And deal your blows as hard as you can;
It shall be tried, within an hour,
Which of us two is the better man.’

But as they were dealing their blows so free,
And both so bloody at the time,
Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,
All for to take brave Hughie the Græme.

Then they hae grippit Hughie the Græme,
And brought him up through Carlisle town;
The lasses and lads stood on the walls,
Crying, Hughie the Græme, thou 'se neer gae down!

Then they hae chosen a jury of men,
The best that were in Carlisle town,
And twelve of them cried out at once,
Hughie the Græme, thou must gae down!

Then up bespak him gude Lord Hume,
As he sat by the judge's knee:
‘Twenty white owsen, my gude lord,
If you 'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’

‘O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume,
Forsooth and sae it mauna be;
For were there but three Græmes of the name,
They suld be hanged a' for me.’

'T was up and spake the gude Lady Hume,
As she sat by the judge's knee:
‘A peck of white pennies, my good lord judge,
If you 'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’

‘O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume,
Forsooth and so it mustna be;
Were he but the one Græme of the name,
He suld be hanged high for me.’

‘If I be guilty,’ said Hughie the Græme,
‘Of me my friends shall hae small talk;’
And he has loupd fifteen feet and three,
Though his hands they were tied behind his back.

He looked over his left shoulder,
And for to see what he might see;
There was he aware of his auld father,
Came tearing his hair most piteouslie.

‘O hald your tongue, my father,’ he says,
‘And see that ye dinna weep for me!
For they may ravish me o my life,
But they canna banish me fro heaven hie.

‘Fare ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife!
The last time we came ower the muir
'T was thou bereft me of my life,
And wi the bishop thou playd the whore.

‘Here, Johnnie Armstrang, take thou my sword,
That is made o the metal sae fine,
And when thou comest to the English side
Remember the death of Hughie the Græme.’