Roxburghe Ballads, III, 456; edited for the Ballad Society
by J.W. Ebsworth, VI, 598.
| 1 |
Good Lord John is a hunting gone,
Over the hills and dales so far,
For to take Sir Hugh in the Grime,
For stealing of the bishop's mare.
He derry derry down |
| 2 |
Hugh in the Grime was taken then
And carried to Carlisle town;
The merry women came out amain,
Saying, The name of Grime shall never go down! |
| 3 |
O then a jury of women was brought,
Of the best that could be found;
Eleven of them spoke all at once,
Saying, The name of Grime shall never go down! |
| 4 |
And then a jury of men was brought,
More the pity for to be!
Eleven of them spoke all at once,
Saying, Hugh in the Grime, you are guilty. |
| 5 |
Hugh in the Grime was cast to be hangd,
Many of his friends did for him lack;
For fifteen foot in the prisin he did jump,
With his hands tyed fast behind his back. |
| 6 |
Then bespoke our good Lady Ward,
As she set on the bench so high:
'A peck of white pennys I'll give to my lord,
If he'll grant Hugh Grime to me. |
| 7 |
'And if it be not full enough,
I'll stroke it up with my silver fan;
And if it be not full enough,
I'll heap it up with my own hand.' |
| 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.' |
