I wish I were where Helen lies,
    For night and day on me she cries;
    And, like an angel, to the skies
        Still seems to beckon me! 
    For me she lived, for me she sigh’d,
    For me she wish’d to be a bride;
    For me in life’s sweet morn she died
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
    As Helen on my arm reclined,
    A rival with a ruthless mind
        Took deadly aim at me. 
    My love, to disappoint the foe,
    Rush’d in between me and the blow;
    And now her corse is lying low,
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
    I curse the hand by which she fell—­
    The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
        And tore my love from me! 
    For if, when all the graces shine,
    Oh! if on earth there ’s aught divine,
    My Helen! all these charms were thine,
        They centred all in thee!

    Ah! what avails it that, amain,
    I clove the assassin’s head in twain? 
    No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
        No resting-place for me. 
    I see her spirit in the air—­
    I hear the shriek of wild despair,
    When murder laid her bosom bare,
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Oh! when I ’m sleeping in my grave,
    And o’er my head the rank weeds wave,
    May He who life and spirit gave
        Unite my love and me! 
    Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
    My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
    And, joining Helen in the skies,
        Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.

[24] During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great personal attractions and numerous accomplishments, named Helen Irving, daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood.  Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed rival.  The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different ballads, two of these being old.  The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1815.

THE WINTER SAT LANG.

    The winter sat lang on the spring o’ the year,
    Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
    My mither tint her heart when she look’d on us a’,
    And we thought upon those that were farest awa’. 
    Oh, were they but here that are farest awa’! 
    Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a’! 
    Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma’,
    If they were but here that are far frae us a’!