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; And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre, Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter. THE BONNIEST LASS IN A' THE WARLD. The bonniest lass in a' the warld, I 've often heard them telling, She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen, She 's in yon lonely dwelling. But nane could bring her to my mind Wha lives but in the fancy, Is 't Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May, Is 't Effie, Bess, or Nancy? Now lasses a' keep a gude heart, Nor e'er envy a comrade, For be your een black, blue, or gray, Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad. The tender heart, the charming smile, The truth that ne'er will falter, Are charms that never can beguile, And time can never alter. MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51] Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O? Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O? Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me, Mishap will never steer ye, O; Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O!