Ballads

Of these lesser epics many groups might be set apart. The ballad is the oldest form. It was originally the production of wandering minstrels or gleemen and was not reduced to writing and kept in permanent form. Being passed from mouth to mouth there naturally came to be great variations in its form, and even the incidents were modified to suit the taste of the singer. After poetry came to be a study of the cultured and refined, the minstrel's power declined though he was a welcome guest at the feasts of the wealthy where his song added to the gayety of the occasion or gave dignity to the host as his deeds were sung by the hireling bard. In the sixteenth century these singers disappeared from view in the blaze of the Elizabethan age. The north of England and the borderland of Scotland was a region that produced many ballads and among them appeared the tale of The Three Ravens which has survived to our day and still remains in various forms among the songs of the common people. The curious refrains running through the stanzas were the choruses often echoed by the group listening to the person who sang the lines of the narrative.

The Three Ravens

There were three ravens sat on a tree,-
Down-a-down, hey down, hey down.
There were three ravens sat on a tree,-
With a down.

There were three ravens sat on a tree,—
They were black as they might be:

With a down, derry derry derry down down.

The one of them said to his mate

Down-a-down, hey down, hey down. The one of them said to his mate,

Where shall we our breakfast take?

With a down, derry derry derry down down.

Down in yonder green field

There lies a knight slain under his shield.

His hounds they lie down at his feet

So well they their master keep.

His hawks they fly so eagerly,
There's no fowl dare him come nigh.

Down there comes a fallow doe,
Great with young as she might go.

She lift up his bloody head,

And kist his wounds that were so red.

She got him upon her back

And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime,

She was dead ere even-time.

God send every gentleman

Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.

belen of Kirkconnell

The story is told by Sir Walter Scott:

"A lady by 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 neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blackethouse. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored 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 these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and leveled 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.”

I wish I were where Helen lies.
And night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

Curst be the heart that thought the thought
And cursed the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succor me.

O think ye na but my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair,

I laid her down wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

As I went down to 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.

O Helen fair, beyond compare.
I'll weave a garland for thy hair