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:—