Now Liddesdale has layen lang in,
  There is na riding there at a’;
  The horses are grown sae lither fat,
  They downa stur out o’ the sta.’

  Fair Johnie Armstrang to Willie did say—­
  “Billie, a riding we will gae;
  England and us have been lang at feid;
  Ablins we’ll light on some bootie.”

  Then they are come on to Hutton Ha’;
  They rade that proper place about;
  But the laird he was the wiser man,
  For he had left nae gear without.

  For he had left nae gear to steal,
  Except sax sheep upon a lee: 
  Quo’ Johnie—­“I’d rather in England die,
  “Ere thir sax sheep gae to Liddesdale wi’ me.”

  “But how ca’ they the men we last met,
  Billie, as we cam owre the know?”
  “That same he is an innocent fule,
  And men they call him Dick o’ the Cow,”

  “That fule has three as good kye o’ his ain,
  As there are in a’ Cumberland, billie,” quo he: 
  “Betide me life, betide me death,
  These kye shall go to Liddesdale wi’ me.”

  Then they have come on to the pure fule’s house,
  And they hae broken his wa’s sae wide;
  They have loosed out Dick o’ the Cow’s three ky,
  And ta’en three co’erlets frae his wife’s bed.

  Then on the morn when the day was light,
  The shouts and cries rase loud and hie: 
  “O haud thy tongue, my wife,” he says,
  “And o’ thy crying let me be!

  “O had thy tongue, my wife,” he says,
  “And o’ thy crying let me be;
  And ay where thou hast lost ae cow,
  In gude suith I shall bring thee three.”

  Now Dickie’s gane to the gude Lord Scroope,
  And I wat a dreirie fule was he;
  “Now hand thy tongue, my fule,” he says,
  “For I may not stand to jest wi’ thee.”

  “Shame fa’ your jesting, my lord!” quo’ Dickie,
  “For nae sic jesting grees wi’ me;
  Liddesdale’s been in my house last night,
  And they hae awa my three kye frae me.

  “But I may nae langer in Cumberland dwell,
  To be your puir fule and your leal,
  Unless you gi’ me leave, my lord,
  To gae to Liddesdale and steal.”

  “I gie thee leave, my fule!” he says;
  “Thou speakest against my honour and me,
  Unless thou gie me thy trowth and thy hand,
  Thou’lt steal frae nane but whae sta’ frae thee.”

  “There is my trowth, and my right hand! 
  My head shall hang on Hairibee;
  I’ll ne’er cross Carlisle sands again,
  If I steal frae a man but whae sta’ frae me.”

  Dickie’s ta’en leave o’ lord and master;
  I wat a merry fule was he! 
  He’s bought a bridle and a pair of new spurs,
  And pack’d them up in his breek thie.

  Then Dickie’s come on to Pudding-burn house,
  E’en as fast as he might drie;
  Then Dickie’s come on to Pudding-burn,
  Where there were thirty Armstrangs and three.