Our lords are all a-hunting gone Over the hills and mountains fair And they have taken Hugh the Graeme For stealing of the bishop's mare
And they have bound him hand and foot And led him up through Stirling town The lads and lasses met him there Cried Hugh the Graeme must be set down
Oh, loose my right hand free he said And put my broadsword in the same There's none in Stirling town this day Dares tell this lie of Hughie Graeme
Then up bespoke the Lady Black As she sat by the bishop's knee One thousand pounds I'll give to thee If Hugh the Graeme you will set free
Then out did speak the Lady White And aye, a sorry woman was she I'll give one hundred milk-white steeds If you give Hugh the Graeme to me
Oh, hold your tongue you ladies fair And you let all your pleading be Though you would give ten thousand pounds He should be hanged high for me
They brought him to the gallows hill He looked on the gallows tree Yet ne'er the color left his cheek Nor tear did blind his eye
At length he looked round about To see whatever he could see And there he saw his old father And he was weeping piteously
Oh, hold your tongue my father dear And you let all your mourning be Thy weeping's harder on my heart Than all that they can do to me
And brother John take here my sword With silver glittering all around Come up the hill at twelve o'clock To see your brother Hugh cut down.
And remember me to Maggie, my wife Who does not hold my life so dear And bid her come at eight o'clock To see me pay for the bishop's mare
Bring the news to my lady wife She is the cause that I am here 'Twas she who stole the bishop's mare She is his wanton mistress fare
And hear me now, my kith and kin I never did dishonor thee And though they bereave me of my life They cannot hold the heavens from meTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
