Volume 2 — Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of KirtleA

Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of Kirtle^A

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and, accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language; in fact, the same as that of Bürger's Leonora, except that the first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803."—Ed.

The Poem

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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 Kirkonnel 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 Hic jacet. Note Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55

Variant 1:

1815

The Gordon ... 1800

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Variant 2:

1837

But what is Gordon's beauteous face? And what are Gordon's crosses To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses? 1800

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Variant 3:

1837

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 1800

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Variant 4:

1837

And, starting up, to Bruce's heart 1800

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Variant 5:

1837

Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth ... 1800

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Variant 6:

1827

So coming back across the wave, Without a groan on Ellen's grave 1800

And coming back ... 1802

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Footnote A:

The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.—W. W. 1800.

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Note:

No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to Helen of Kirkconnell. It is based on a traditionary tale—the date of the event being lost—but the locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, is known; and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her lover are still pointed out. The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:

"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."

See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. p. 317. The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lee! Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! Oh think ye na my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lee. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lee— I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll weave a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee! Oh that I were where Helen lies! Day and night on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!" O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! Were I with thee I would be blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, On fair Kirkconnell lee. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying On fair Kirkconnell lee. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me!

Ed.

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