Ritchie Grame of Bailie,
  Will’s Jock Grame,
  Fargue’s Willie Grame,
  Muckle Willie Grame,
  Will Grame of Rosetrees,
  Ritchie Grame, younger of Netherby,
  Wat Grame, called Flaughtail,
  Will Grame, Nimble Willie,
  Will Grahame, Mickle Willie,

with many others.

In Mr Ritson’s curious and valuable collection of legendary poetry, entitled Ancient Songs, he has published this Border ditty, from a collation of two old black-letter copies, one in the collection of the late John duke of Roxburghe, and another in the hands of John Bayne, Esq.—­The learned editor mentions another copy, beginning, “Good Lord John is a hunting gone.”  The present edition was procured for me by my friend Mr W. Laidlaw, in Blackhouse, and has been long current in Selkirkshire.  Mr Ritson’s copy has occasionally been resorted to for better readings.

HUGHIE THE GRAEME.

  Gude Lord Scroope’s to the hunting gane,
   He has ridden o’er moss and muir;
  And he has grippit Hughie the Graeme,
   For stealing o’ the Bishop’s mare.

  “Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! 
   “Here hangs a broad sword by my side;
  “And if that thou canst conquer me,
   “The matter it may soon be tryed.”

  “I ne’er was afraid of a traitor thief;
   “Although thy name be Hughie the Graeme,
  “I’ll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,
   “If God but grant me life and time.”

  “Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope,
   “And deal your blows as hard as you can! 
  “It shall be tried, within an hour,
   “Which of us two is the better man.”

  But as they were dealing their blows so free,
   And both so bloody at the time,
  Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,
   All for to take brave Hughie the Graeme.

  Then they hae grippit Hughie the Graeme,
   And brought him up through Carlisle town;
  The lasses and lads stood on the walls,
   Crying, “Hughie the Graeme, thou’se ne’er gae down!”

  Then hae they chosen a jury of men,
   The best that were in Carlisle[A] town;
  And twelve of them cried out at once,
   “Hughie the Graeme, thou must gae down!”

  Then up bespake him gude Lord Hume,[B]
   As he sat by the judge’s knee,—­
  “Twentie white owsen, my gude lord,
   “If you’ll grant Hughie the Graeme to me.”

  “O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume! 
   “For sooth and sae it manna be;
  “For, were there but three Graemes of the name,
   “They suld be hanged a’ for me.”

  ’Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume,
   As she sate by the judge’s knee,—­
  A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge,
   “If you’ll grant Hughie the Graeme to me.”

  “O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume! 
   “Forsooth and so it mustna be;
  “Were he but the one Graeme of the name,
   “He suld be hanged high for me.”