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Charles Kingsley - The Outlaw
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Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father`s trade,
To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.
Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,—
Let them die o` rent wha like, mither, and I`ll die by sword.

Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,
Scrabbling ower the sheets o` parchment with a weary weary pen;
Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o` sky,
Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.

Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,
Trailing strings o` footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;
Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o`er his wares,
Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.

Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi` ruffian bands,
Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.
Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o` war—
There`s blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it`s ill to make it mair.

If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha` been douce and still,
And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill;
Sat at hame wi` the woman I looed, and wi` bairnies at my knee:
But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve`s no for me.

For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well
How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;
And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,
Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.

Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;
I do but hunt God`s cattle, upon God`s ain hills;
For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free
To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.

So I`m aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,
Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;
Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes,
Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.

Oh, the wafts o` heather honey, and the music o` the brae,
As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a` the day.
Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky—
That`s a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.

And when I`m taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o` my deer,
Ye`ll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air;
But ye`ll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye`ll steal me frae the tree,
And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.

Ye`ll bury me `twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,
Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray;
And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I`ll go glowering at the sky,
The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.

In the New Forest, 1847.
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