If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what is Gordons beauteous 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.