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 succor me!

O, 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.

O Helen fair, beyond compare !
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart forevermair
Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

A poacher's widow sat sighing

On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloomy fir-woods, One spot in the lea throve rank.

She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran,
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.

She thought of the dark plantation,

And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation

Rose up to the throne of God.

"I am long past wailing and whining,I have wept too much in my life: I've had twenty years of pining

As an English laborer's wife.

"A laborer in Christian England,

Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives, like the vermin's,
For a few more brace of game.

"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There's blood on your pointer's feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,

And there's blood on the game you eat.

"You have sold the laboring man, squire,
Both body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.

"You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving children's feet.