was even denied an audience; but he still
entertained a hope that, by a personal conference with the king, he
might attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to
the following artifice:--He formed acquaintance with the organist of the
chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his substitute
when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till
the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he
struck up the monarch's old favourite, "Brose and Butter." The scheme,
though bordering on profanity, succeeded in the manner intended. The
king proceeding hastily to the organ-gallery, discovered Cockpen, whom
he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had "almost made him dance." "I
could dance too," said Cockpen, "if I had my lands again." The request,
to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the
power of music and old association. Cockpen was restored to his
inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss
Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular
novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. The present Laird of
Cockpen is the Marquis of Dalhousie.

HER HOME SHE IS LEAVING.

AIR--_"Mordelia."_

In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving,
In sad and tearful silence grieving,
And still as the moment of parting is nearer,
Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer.
Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection
Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection;
Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood,
But tells, as it passes, how blest was her childhood.

And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses,
Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses!
How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river,
The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever!
Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall,
And winter hangs out her cold icy pall--
Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see,
And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.

The joys of the past, more faintly recalling,
Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling,
And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow,
Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow.
Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling,
The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling;