10 ‘Ye’ll gie my brother John the sword That’s pointed wi the metal clear, And bid him come at eight o’clock, And see me pay the bishop’s mare. 11 ‘And, brother James, take here the sword That’s pointed wi the metal brown; Come up the morn at eight o’clock, And see your brother putten down. 12 ‘And, brother Allan, take this sword That’s pointed wi the metal fine; Come up the morn at eight o’clock, And see the death o Hugh the Græme. 13 ‘Ye’ll tell this news to Maggy my wife, Niest time ye gang to Strievling town, She is the cause I lose my life, She wi the bishop playd the loon.’ 14 Again he ower his shoulder lookd, It was to see what he could see, And there he saw his little son, Was screaming by his nourice knee. 15 Then out it spake the little son, ‘Since ’tis the morn that he must die, If that I live to be a man, My father’s death revengd shall be.’ 16 ‘If I must die,’ Sir Hugh replied, ‘My friends o me they will think lack;’ He leapd a wa eighteen feet high, Wi his hands bound behind his back. 17 Lord Home then raised ten armed men, And after him they did pursue; But he has trudged ower the plain As fast as ony bird that flew. 18 He looked ower his left shoulder, It was to see what he coud see; His brother John was at his back, And a’ the rest o his brothers three. 19 Some they wound, and some they slew, They fought sae fierce and valiantly; They made his enemies for to yield, And sent Sir Hugh out ower the sea. * * * * * F Macmath MS., p. 79. “Received by me 20th August and 7th September, 1887, from my aunt, Miss Jane Webster, who derived it from her mother, Janet Spark, Kirkcudbrightshire.” 1 ‘Ye may tell to my wife Maggie, When that she comes to the fair, She was the cause of all my ruin, It was her that stole the bishop’s mare. 2 ‘Ye may tell to my wife Maggie, When that she comes to the town, She was the cause of all my ruin, It was her that stole the bishop’s gown.’ * * * * * G Harris MS., fol. 27 b. Dukes an lords a huntin gane, Over hills an vallies clear; There the’ve bound him Hughie Grame, For stealin o the bishop’s mare. * * * * * #A. a.# Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, in West-smith-field, neer the Hospital-gate. 12^2. Garland. 13^1. another. 22^3. the causer of my life. #b.# To a pleasant new northern tune. Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden-Ball, in Westsmithfield. 3^3. Lords. 9^3. Then cry’d _wanting_. 9^4. never. 10^4. of the. 12^2. Garlard. 13^1. other. 21^3. ware.