"The roebucks run upon thy braes
Without a watch or warden;
And the tongue that calls thee a gentle stream
Is dear to Geordie Gordon."
The outlaw smiled. "'Tis a soldier's saye
That the Gordons, blythe and ready,
Ne'er stooped the plumes of their basnets bright
Save to a lovesome lady."
"Now by Saint Allan," the forester said,
"And the saint who slew the dragon;
And by this hand that wields the brand,
As wight as it tooms the flagon;
"It shall never be told of the Gordons' name,
Of a name so high and lordly,
That I took a gallant outlaw in the toil,
And hanged him base and cowardly.
"I'll give thee the law of Lord Nithisdale,
A good lord of the border;
So take thy bow, thou gallant outlaw,
And set thy shafts in order.
"And we will go each one to his stance,
With bows and arrows ready;
And thou shalt climb up Chatsworth bank,
Where the wood is wild and shady.
"And thou shalt stand on yon rough red rock,
With woodbine hung and bracken;
And shout three times o'er Derwent Vale,
Till all the echoes waken.
"Then loose thy shafts, and slay a buck
Fit for a monarch's larders;
And carry him free from Chatsworth Park,
In spite of seven warders.
"Do this and live, and I do vow
By the white hand of my mother,
I'll smite him low who runs ere thou shout,
Were he Saint Andrew's brother."
The outlaw smiled. "Good Gordon," he said,
"I'll shout both high and gaily;
And smite a buck, and carry him off:
'Tis the work I'm bowne to daily."
The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock,
Like light his looks did gladden;
The sun was shining on Bakewell Edge,
And on the heights of Haddon.
The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock.
He looked to vale and mountain,
And gave a shout so shrill, the swans
Sprung up from stream and fountain.
