Our lords are to the mountains gane,
A hunting o' the fallow deer;
And they ha'e gripet Hughie Graham,
For stealing o' the Bishop's mare.

And they hae tied him hand and foot,
And led him up thro' Stirling town;
The lads and lasses met him there,
Cried, Hughie Graham thou art a loun.

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe,
He looked to the gallows tree,
Yet never colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blin' his ee.

At length he looked round about
To see whatever he could spy,
And there he saw his auld father,
And he was weeping bitterly.
O haud your tongue my father dear,
And wi' your weeping let it be;
Thy weeping's fairer on my heart
Than a' that they can do to me:

And ye may tell my kith and kin,
I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the Bishop's cloak,
To mak it shorter by the hood.