Ellen Irwin

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sateUpon the Braes of Kirtle,Was lovely as a Grecian MaidAdorned with wreaths of myrtle.Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;And there did they beguile the dayWith love and gentle speeches,Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many SquiresThe Bruce had been selected;And Gordon, fairest of them all,By Ellen was rejected.Sad tidings to that noble Youth!For it may be proclaimed with truth,If Bruce hath loved sincerely,That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face?And what are Gordon's crossesTo them who sit by Kirtle's BraesUpon the verdant mosses?Alas that ever he was born!The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,Sees them and their caressing,Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughtsThat through his brain are travelling,—And, starting up, to Bruce's heartHe launched a deadly javelin!Fair Ellen saw it when it came,And, stepping forth to meet the same,Did with her body coverThe Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,Thus died the beauteous Ellen,Thus from the heart of her True-loveThe mortal spear repelling.And Bruce, as soon as he had slainThe Gordon, sailed away to Spain;And fought with rage incessantAgainst the Moorish Crescent.

But many days, and many months,And many years ensuing,This wretched Knight did vainly seekThe death that he was wooing:And coming back across the wave,Without a groan on Ellen's graveHis body he extended,And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heardThe tale I have been telling,May in Kirkonnel churchyard viewThe grave of lovely Ellen:By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;And, for the stone upon his head,May no rude hand deface it,And its forlorn Hie jacet!