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The worst porter in merry Carlisle,
That came this hundred years.
Come, we will our strong bows bend,
Into the town we’ll go,
For to deliver our brother,
That lies in grief and woe.
Then they all bent their good yew bows,
And look'd their strings were round;
The market place of merry Carlisle,
They beset in that stound.
And as they look’d them beside,
A pair of gallows they see,
And the justice, with quest of 'squires,
Judg’d William hang’d to be.
And Cloudeslie lay in a cart,
Fast bound both feet and hands,
And a strong rope about his neck,
All ready for to hang.
The justice call'd to him a lad,
Cloudeslie’s clothes should have,
To take measure of that yeoman,
And make for him a grave.
I’ve seen as great things, said Cloudeslie,
As between this and prime;
He that makes a grave for me,
Himself may lie therein.
Thou speakest proudly, said the justice,
I’ll hang thee with my own hand.
Full well heard this his brethren two,
