Ellen Irwin

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches. From many knights and many squires The 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 are Gordon's form and face, His shattered hopes and crosses, To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, Reclined on flowers and 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, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came, And, starting up to meet the same, Did with her body cover The Youth, her chosen lover. And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus, from the heart of her True-love, The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent. But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing. So, coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended. Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkconnel churchyard view The 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"!