Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine,
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low,
And 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'.
Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie;
He mounted his mare—he rade cannily;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.
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.