8 ‘Hold your tongue now, Lady Ward, And of your talkitive let it be! There is never a Grime came in this court That at thy bidding shall saved be.’ 9 Then bespoke our good Lady Moor, As she sat on the bench so high: ‘A yoke of fat oxen I’ll give to my lord, If he’ll grant Hugh Grime to me.’ 10 ‘Hold your tongue now, good Lady Moor, And of your talkitive let it be! There is never a Grime came to this court That at thy bidding shall saved be.’ 11 Sir Hugh in the Grime lookd out of the door, With his hand out of the bar; There he spy’d his father dear, Tearing of his golden hair. 12 ‘Hold your tongue, good father dear, And of your weeping let it be! For if they bereave me of my life, They cannot bereave me of the heavens so high.’ 13 Sir Hugh in the Grime lookd out at the door, Oh, what a sorry heart had he! There [he] spy’d his mother dear, Weeping and wailing ‘Oh, woe is me!’ 14 ‘Hold your tongue now, mother dear, And of your weeping let it be! For if they bereave me of my life, They cannot bereave me of heaven’s fee. 15 ‘I’ll leave my sword to Johnny Armstrong That is made of mettal so fine, That when he comes to the border-side He may think of Hugh in the Grime.’ * * * * * E Buchan’s MSS, I, 53. 1 Lord Home he is a hunting gane, Through the woods and valleys clear, And he has taen Sir Hugh the Græme, For stealing o the bishop’s mare. 2 They hae taen Sir Hugh the Græme, Led him down thro Strieveling town; Fifeteen o them cried a’ at ance, ‘Sir Hugh the Græme he must go down!’ 3 They hae causd a court to sit, Mang a’ their best nobilitie; Fifeteen o them cried a’ at ance, ‘Sir Hugh the Græme he now must die!’ 4 Out it speaks the lady Black, And o her will she was right free: ‘A thousand pounds, my lord, I’ll gie, If Hugh the Græme set free to me.’ 5 ‘Hold your tongue, ye Lady Black, And ye’ll let a’ your pleadings be! Though ye woud gie me thousands ten, It’s for my honour he must die.’ 6 Then out it speaks her Lady Bruce, And o her will she was right free: ‘A hundred steeds, my lord, I’ll gie, If ye’ll gie Hugh the Græme to me.’ 7 ‘O hold your tongue, ye Lady Bruce, And ye’ll let a’ your pleadings be! Though a’ the Græmes were in this court, It’s for my honour he must die.’ 8 He looked over his shoulder, It was to see what he coud see, And there he saw his auld father, Weeping and wailing bitterlie. 9 ‘O hold your tongue, my old father, And ye’ll let a’ your mourning be! Though they bereave me o my life, They canno had the heavens frae me.