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 is Gordons beauteous 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, stepping forth 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 its head

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn Hic Jacet!

——W. Wordsworth.

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