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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355135" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Outlaw</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade,<br>To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.<br>Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-<br>Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,<br>Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen;<br>Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky,<br>Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,<br>Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;<br>Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares,<br>Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands,<br>Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.<br>Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war-<br>There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still,<br>And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill;<br>Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee:<br>But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well<br>How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;<br>And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,<br>Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;<br>I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills;<br>For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free<br>To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,<br>Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;<br>Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes,<br>Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae,<br>As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day.<br>Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky-<br>That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer,<br>Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air;<br>But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree,<br>And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,<br>Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray;<br>And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky,<br>The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In the New Forest, 1847.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Kingsley">Charles Kingsley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355135" data-title="The Outlaw de Charles Kingsley" data-description="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.
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