INTO BALLAD-LAND. 113 



" I wish I were where Helen lies, 

 Night and day on me she cries ; 

 Oh that I were where Helen lies 



On fair Kirkconnell Lea ; 

 Curst 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 ! " 



The fine lines of another ballad answer well to her traditional 

 beauty, 



" The red that's on my true love's cheek, 



Is like blood-drops on the snaw ; 

 The white that is on her breast bare, 

 Like the down o' the white sea-maw." 



Many a modern poet has tried his hand on the legend, but its 

 finale cannot be better told than by Wordsworth, who has 

 changed Fleming into Bruce, 



" Now ye who willingly have heard 



The tale I have been telling, 

 May in Kirkconnell 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 facet! " 



But here we must stop. Though it be delightful to tarry a 

 while in Ballad-land, and we find ourselves echoing simple 

 Mopsa's sentiment, " I love a ballad in print o' life," it does 

 not follow that we believe her reason for it, " for then we are 

 sure they are true." It is time to return to the realities of life, 

 and to thank our readers for following us thus far in our poetical 

 pilgrimage, 



" O dulces comitum valete coetus, 

 Longe quos simul a domo projectos 

 Diverse varise vise reportant.' 

 H 



