Lyrics:

Lords have to the mountains gone, a-huntin' of the fallow deer
They have grippit Hughie Graeme for stealing of the bishop's mare
They have bought him hand and foot, led him up through Carlisle town
All the lads along the way cried 'Hughie Graeme, you shall hang'

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

Up and spoke the good Whitefoord as he sat by the bishop's knee,
'Five hundred white stots I'll give you if you give Hughie Graeme to me.'
'Hold your tongue, my noble lord, and as of your pleading, let it be.
Although ten Graemes were in his coat, Hughie Graeme this day shall die.'

Up and spoke the fair Whitefoord as she sat by the bishop's knee,
'Five hundred white pence I'll give you if you let Hughie Grame go free.'
'Hold your tongue, my lady fair, and as of your weeping, let it be.
Although ten Graemes were in his coat, it's for my honor he must die.'

They've ta'en him to the hanging hill and led him by the gallows tree
Ne'er did color leave his cheek, nor ever did he blink his eye
Then he's looked him roundabout, all for to see what he could see
Then he saw his father dear, weeping, weeping bitterly

'Hold your tongue, my father dear, and as 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 James my sword that's made of the metal clear.
Bid him come at twelve of the clock and see me pay the bishop's mare.
And you may give my brother John my sword that's made of the metal brown.
Bid him come at four of the clock and see his brother Hugh cut down.

Remember me to Maggie my wife the next time she comes o'er the moor
Tell 'er she stole the bishop's mare
Tell 'er she was the bishop's whore

And you may tell my kith and kin I never did disgrace their blood
When next they meet the bishop's cloak,
Leave it shorter by the hood!'