Ellen of Donegal - A Poem

Day 9/50 Days Blogging Challenge

Recently I watched a Projectkin session with Randy Seaver as guest, talking about his approach to writing bios for his ancestors using AI. I was very interested when he mentioned asking AI to write a poem about his ancestor which he then turned into a song.

Immediately I wondered what a poem about my 2x great grandmother, Ellen Boyle would sound like. I have written many times about her, and she featured in my Earl Grey Orphan Girl Series recently.

Ellen arrived in Australia in 1848 as part of the Earl Grey Orphan Scheme. You can read about her in The Story of Ellen Boyle

Following is the poem that ChatGPT generated. Knowing Ellen’s story and feeling her connection deeply, I found the poem very moving. I do wonder what Ellen Boyle would think about her life being turned into a song.

The Story of Ellen Boyle

AI Generated Poem

Ellen of Donegal

In Inver’s mist, by ocean’s sigh,
A child was born beneath grey sky.
In Donegal, where waves would weep,
Ellen Boyle was cradled deep—
In village small, where fields were bare,
And famine rode the bitter air.

Her father gone, no stone to mark,
The Boyle home dimmed, the future dark.
Her mother, worn by grief and toil,
Sent Ellen forth from native soil.
A workhouse door, cold, ironbound,
Where hope was thin and silence loud.

Yet fate, in form both cruel and kind,
Selected her from those behind—
At fifteen years, still but a maid,
A path across the seas was laid.
The Lady Kennaway would sail
With orphan girls, so frail, so pale.

She’d cleaned and cooked, she’d scrubbed and swept,
Her dreams like folded linens kept.
Then westward bound from Plymouth’s shore,
To land she'd never seen before.
Three months at sea, salt in her hair,
A cross to bear, but dreams to dare.

And did she pass the Bridge of Tears?
With whispered prayers and stifled fears?
Did mother weep upon that track,
Not knowing if she’d e’er come back?
We’ll never know—but still we feel
The sorrow in that last farewell.

Then Melbourne rose from dust and clay,
And Ellen, strong, did find her way.
At sixteen years, she took the hand
Of William Calnan, Irish man.
Twelve children came—six girls, six sons—
Their names like rosary beads spun.

A quiet life in Violet Town,
Where sheep were shorn and roots dug down.
With cattle trades and Sunday mass,
The seasons slow, the decades pass.
And somehow, strangely, bright with grace,
Her kin would gather, find their place.

In ’57, hearts were stirred—
A letter came, a hopeful word.
Her mother, brother, nieces near—
The rarest tale: reunion here.
By Honeysuckle Creek they farmed,
The Boyle bloodline safe and charmed.

Yet history holds no marble stone
To mark the place where Ellen’s flown.
No chisel carved her name in bed,
But memory lives on instead.
For those who cross wild seas alone
Leave echoes deeper than mere stone.

She lived, she loved, she gave her all—
From famine’s grip to fortune’s call.
From Donegal to golden sun,
A matriarch whose life was spun
With threads of courage, faith, and grace—
A woman time cannot erase.

So ask me now, was she made whole?
Did fortune favour Ellen’s soul?
Yes—resoundingly, I say—
Her legacy still walks today.
In children’s laughter, warm embrace,
In quiet strength and steadfast pace.

Her story winds through blood and bone—
Ellen of Donegal, you're home.

Day 9/50: 50 Day Family History Blogging Challenge

Poem generated by ChatGPT