man,” replied the other, "ye wad na' believe me an' I were to tell you: but just lie at the bedstock as I do, and ye'll soon find out why I am lean and sad." They changed places; and still and watchful lay Rob, resolved to solve the mystery for himself. All became quiet: ten o'clock struck, and eleven o'clock warned. Rob thought the ticking of his watch louder than usual, and that the cheap of a mouse was as loud as the squeak of a rat: at last, slumber began to steal upon him, and with slumber the farmer's wife came, shook in a moment an enchanted bridle over his head, uttered a word which he luckily remembered, and lo! to his own utter astonishment, he became a horse, was bridled and mounted in a breath, and urged on the way to Locher-brig-hill, as fast as a witch and a switch could drive him. Rob was not sure of his transformation till he saw his shadow in Locher-brook, nor of the person of his rider till she leaped down from his back, hooked his bridle on the snag of an oak, and, smiling on him, hastened to the trysting place, where Satan on that night had summoned a meeting of all the witches of Nithsdale. Poor Rob disliked his transformation; and to be ridden to the devil by a witch! he prayed inwardly, renounced all sins to which he felt himself inclined, formed pious resolutions, and all the while toiled and twisted to remove the enchanted bridle from his head. He succeeded in this at last, resumed his own shape, and, waiting behind the oak till his mistress returned, shook the bridle over her head, and spoke the word of gramary: she became on a sudden a gray mare! Rob sprung on her back, and switched her sharply, till day began to dawn; when, turning her head towards a smith's forge, he muttered, “I shall have this bonny creature shod.", But she looked so beseechingly at him, that he lighted down, and removed the curb: before he restored her, however, to her own shape, he bargained for a softer bed and an increase of wages. It is added by some, that Rob kept the bridle, that his mistress grew devout, and when her husband died, married him. The second story has been briefly related by Sir Walter Scott in his version, he makes Thomas the Rhymer the hero; but this post, in the Nithsdale tradition, is more appropriately filled by Michael Scott the Magician. There are other differences. A horse-dealer, it is said, was returning late one night from a border-fair with a fine young black horse, unsold; when a stranger, accosting him, offered his price at once, saying, "Come with me now to the foot of that hill, and I will pay you." The dealer gazed on his customer, a tall old man with a beard as white as snow, who led the way: and when they came to the hill, the hill opened, and they entered through a lofty gateway, into a vaulted palace, which seemed hewn out of the solid rock, and was lighted by innumerable lamps. The old man paid the price of the horse in the old coin of Scotland, and then bade him step forward, and look how his horse was stabled. He took a step, and saw, to his astonishment, rank succeeding rank of black horses, all saddled and bridled, while an armed warrior lay motionless at each charger's feet. "These," said he, "are all Michael Scott's men, and they will awaken when great peril comes upon Scotland: but they will not move till some one comes who can draw that sword, and blow that horn, which you see hanging on the column.” On this, the horse-dealer, strengthened by the brandy which he had drunk at the fair, stepped forward, seized the sword but could not draw it, then snatched the horn and tried to wind it: all he produced was a faint and feeble sound; but the horses stamped and neighed, the warriors half-started up, and shook their swords; and as Sir Michael Scott-for it was the magician himself-exclaimed, "Woe to those who blow the horn before they draw the sword!" a tempest of wind swept the audacious horsedealer out of the palace, and he was found half-dead, or half-drunk, next morning, on the road between Dumfries and Lockerby. CORA LYNN. THE time I saw thee, Cora, last, It was as sweet an Autumn day Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery, In Cora's glen the calm how deep! Like statues stood, or things asleep, The torrent spoke as if his noise His foam, beneath the yellow light Dear Lynn! let loftier falling floods Have prouder names than thine, And king of all, enthron'd in woods, Let Niagara shine. Barbarian, let him shake his coasts His voice appals the wilderness: More fury would but disenchant Be thou the Scottish muse's haunt, Romantic Cora Lynn! T. CAMPBELL. The three falls of the river Clyde, so greatly enhanced by the beauty of the surrounding scenery, are objects of never-failing attraction. That of Cora Lynn is pre-eminently so. Here the volume of water is not precipitated in one continuous sheet, as at Bonnington, but is dashed from one shelving rock to another, so as to form three distinct leaps, but which, when the river is full, are nearly imperceptible. Nothing can surpass the striking and stupendous appearance of this cascade. The natural scenery presents a magnificent picture of gigantic crags and hanging woods, and never fails to inspire the traveller with surprise and delight. On a rock immediately above the fall, stand the ruins of Cora Castle; and on a lower ledge is seen a mill, driven by the stream, which, at the verge of its desperate plunge, is thus converted to the use of man. The Scotch are proud of their rivers, and speak of them with affection. Nor are their merits unsung: the Clyde, the Tweed, the Yarrow, the Doon, the Forth, and the Nith, run musical in many a lyric strain. High poets, too, have been born on their banks, or have lived in their |