In playing the tune, “Brose and Butter,” he particularly excelled; it became the favourite of the exiled monarch, and Cockpen had pleasure in gratifying the royal wish, that he might be lulled to sleep at night, and awakened in the morning by this enchanting air.  At the Restoration, Cockpen found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to the king, and had the deep mortification to discover that he had suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his many petitions and entreaties for the restoration of his possessions.  Visiting London, he 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.