But no one can doubt that it was the true picture of a character and incident which had given laughter to Carolina Oliphant and her young friends, and had been the joke of the country-side, ere it lilted itself to the rollicking jig. The commonly printed version of The Laird of Cockpen is injured by the fact that it has two additional verses, contributed by Miss Ferrier, the novelist, which destroy its absolute completeness and perfection of humor as it was written by Lady Nairne. THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. The laird of Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great; His mind is taen up wi' things o' the State. He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fasheous to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well, M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha'-Lee, A penniless lass wi' a long pedigree. His wig was well pouthered, as gude as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword and cock'd hat, And wha could resist a laird wi' a that. He took the grey mare and rode cannily, An' rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha'-Lee. "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben-- She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine; "O, what brings the laird at sic' a like time." She put off her apron and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu low, An' what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na," And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfoundered was he, nae sigh did he gie. He mounted his mare--he rade cannily. An' often he thought as he gaed thro' the glen, She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen. Only a little less humorous and perfect is Jamie, the Laird, whose doting mother may have persecuted Carolina Oliphant herself, or some of her friends, with the story of his mental and physical perfections until there was this burst of mocking vexation, to the tune of The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow:-- JAMIE, THE LAIRD. Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak' him drink Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak' him think; Send a craw to the surgin, an' still he will craw; An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava; Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e; In body or mind nae faut can she see; "He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow, An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow. "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. His legs they are bow'd, his e'es they do glee, His wig, whiles its off, an' when on, its ajee.