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Hughie Grame

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La versione di June Tabor, trovata su Mainly Norfolk: English...

HUGHIE GRAME (or HUGHIE THE GRAEME)

The Laird o' Hume he's a huntin' gone
Over the hills and mountains clear,
And he has ta'en Sir Hugh the Grame
For stealin' o' the Bishop's mear.

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

They hae ta'en Sir Hugh the Grame
And led him doon through Strievling toon,
Fifteen o' them cried oot at ance,
"Sir Hugh the Grame he must gae doon!"

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

"Were I to die," said Hugh the Grame
"My parents would think it a very great lack"
Full fifteen feet in the air he jumped
Wi' his hands bound fast behind his back.

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

Then oot and spak the Lady Black,
And o' her will she was right free,
"A thousand pounds, my lord, I'll give
If Hugh the Grame set free to me."

"Haud your tongue, ye Lady Black
And ye'll let a' your pleading be!
Though ye would gie me thousands ten
It's for my honour he would die."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

Then oot it spak her Lady Hume
And aye a sorry woman was she,
"I'll gie ye a hundred milk-white steeds
Gin ye'll gie Sir Hugh the Grame to me."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

"O Haud your tongue, ye Lady Hume
And ye'll let a' your pleading be!
Though a' the Grames were in this court,
He should be hanged high for me."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

He lookit ower his left shoulder
It was to see what he could see,
And there he saw his auld faither
Weeping and wailing bitterly.

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

"O, haud your tongue, my auld faither
And ye'll let a' your mournin' be!
For if they bereave me o' my life
They canna haud the heavens frae me."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

"You'll gie my brother, John, the sword
That's pointed with the metal clear,
And bid him come at eight o'clock
And see me pay the Bishop'e mear."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

"And brother James, tak' here the sword
That's pointed wi' the metal brown
Come up the morn at eight o'clock
And see your brother putten down."

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

Ye'll tell this news to Maggie, my wife
Neist time ye gang to Strievling toon,
She is the cause I lose my life
She wi' the Bishop played the loon.

Tay ammarey, O Londonderry
Tay ammarey, O London dee.

HUGHIE GRAEME

Lords are to the mountains gone,
A-hunting of the fallow deer;
They have grippit Hughie Graeme
For stealing of the bishop's mare.

They have bound him hand and foot,
And led him up through Carlisle town;
All the lads along the way
Cried, “Hughie Graeme you shall hang.”

“Loose my right hand free, he says,
Put my broadsword in my hand;
There's none in Carlisle town this day,
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graeme.”

Up and spake the good Whitefoord,
As he sat by the Bishop's knee,
“Five hundred white stots [young oxen] I'll give you,
If you'll give Hughie Graeme to me.”

“Hold your tongue, my noble lord,
And of your pleading let it be,
Although ten Graemes were in this court,
Hughie Graeme this day shall die.”

Up and spake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the Bishop's knee;
“Five hundred white pence I'll give you,
If you'll let Hughie Graeme go free.”

“Hold your tongue, my lady fair,
And of your weeping let it be;
Although ten Graemes were in this court,
It's for my honour he must die.”

They've ta'en him to the hanging hill
And led him to the gallows tree;
Ne'er the colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blink his eye.

Then he's looked him round about,
Al for to see what he could see;
There he saw his father dear,
Weeping, weeping bitterly.

“Hold your tongue, my father dear,
And of your weeping let it be;
It sorer, sorer grieves my heart
Than all that they could do to me.

And you may give my brother John
My sword that's made of the metal clear;
And bid him come at twelve of the clock
And see me pay the Bishop's mare.

And you may give my brother James
My sword that's made of the metal brown;
And bid him come at four of the clock
And see his brother Hugh cut down.

Remember me to Maggy my wife,
The next time ye come o'er the moor;
Tell her, she stole the Bishop's mare,
Tell her, she was the Bishop's whore.

And you may tell my kith and kin,
I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the Bishop's cloak,
Leave it shorter by the hood.”


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