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.
The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on the
banks of which the events here related took place.
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 Kirkonnel churchyard view 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 Hic jacet!
(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And those grey rocks; that household lawn ; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode- In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream or vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know Thee, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far
away: For never saw I mien, or face,
In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind- Thus beating up against the wind.
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