The bush where he, at sixteen sweet,

Poured out his soul, he sighed to see't.
His heart waxed tender-dropping slack
The magic bridle, thus he spake.

"A sonsie bit, red hung with rowans ! Here first outgush green April's gowans. Here aft with ane mair fair to see Than flowers in spring, I've wandered free; There plucked a bud, here stayed to fleech, There sighed, I oft was pinched for speech. Speak Elspat, speak, this place in steep Has laid my soul, I maist could weep. By present woe the bygane pleasure Is meted, and looks large of measure. Ye've played us baith a pretty plisket, Ask my twa sides,-look at thy brisket. There, in the sun-lit stream, see plain Thy tapering limbs and flowing mane ; Was e'er so fair, so fleet a steed, Bridled for man in hour of need. Wilt thou with airn be sharply shod, Or quit thy spells and turn to God?"

She looked,-alas, what could she say? Rob stroked her neck: “ My bonnie gray, I understand thee, I can read

Baith look of woman and of steed."

Down leap'd he, loosed the bridle,-there A sweet dame stands with clustering hair :

Fresh as a rose, from breast to brow,
Or lily born in June's first dew.

She tried to speak, but choked and sobbin',

66

She wept, and all she said was Robin!"

Rob rubbed his hands, o'er deil and woman
Triumphant, soothed her, Elspat Coman:
And home, like sister and like brother,
Linked like chain shot they went together.

The sun shone bright on Criffel's crown, The laverock her sweet flight had flown; The seagull, on the Solway side, Plumed in the warmth her wings with pride. From new woke fires, the curling smoke Hung o'er each lumhead like a cloak. When to their labour, with the lark, Came Elspat's man and bondsman Mark. John lifted up his eyes, and heaving A sigh, said, "Seeing is believing, There's Elspat,,man that's breathing maunie, Say my sweet wife works deeds uncannie." Mark muttered moody,—“ Spur and switch She laid on me, and she's a witch." "Oh John! Oh John!" said Elspat sobbin', Thank him, this soul's weelwisher, Robin; But him, I had with foul shapes bedded, Been to Auld Cloots betrothed and wedded." She clasped him close, and thrice she blest him; Called him sweet husband thrice, and kissed him.

Mark loudly groaned and said, “She preaches
For sorrow, whom sly Satan teaches;

Though fair, she's fause,- -or lies at least;
Has she not made me thrice a beast?
She switched me last old Halloweven
O'er roads, their marrow's no 'neath heaven;
Crossed o'er the Solway's foaming ripple,
On Flanders wine to tout and tipple."

He spake nae mair, for Robin Roole The bridle took, of woe and dool, O'er Mark to shake it. Ever, ever Yon sun will shine and flow that river; Green grass will grow, glad birds will sing, And witchcraft thrive like flowers in spring: Thy hands, thy eyes, thy cheeks, thy tongue, To music, like a fiddle, strung— Charms fancied, felt, adored, 'tis well: Woman! thou'rt all one wondrous spell. And so thought Rob, as both his eyes Flew open-Lo! in bed he lies, Where he lay down. But O the change Wrought on his frame was more than strange; From his hot head the hot sweat streamed; His toiled frame, like a cauldron, steamed;

And sore of foot and heart, in dool

He thought, Can this be Robin Roole?
But spite of witch and witches wand,

He held his witness in his hand,

The Magic Bridle.

"Earth that's under us,

And heaven aboon!" quoth Rob, "it's wondrous."
Mark groaned,-he liked not to be near it,

And glowered as if he'd seen a spirit.
While Rob cried, "Mark! as sure's perdition,
I've been a beast, or seen a vision;
But whether my flesh or fancy dreed
The toil, I've learned to make a steed.
I swear by Solway, deep and wide,
I'll run nae mair while I can ride."
He shook the curb. But more ado,
Mark fled on four feet or on two,
I wotna which; he ne'er was seen
Again by Criffel cleft and green.
While Rob, victorious o'er the pit,
And harder still, o'er woman's wit;
Look'd pleased, and like her only child,
On Elspat glanced, and Elspat smiled.
From that day Rob cracked o'er his bowl,
How he had saved a beauteous soul;
From witches won a magic curb,
Could turn a bondsman to a barb.
Soft grew his bed, fat grew his food,
Large was his fee, his drink was good;
Loud was his song and loud his mirth,
And wept for when he went to earth.

SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.

WE have met with few men whom we wished so much to meet again as Sir George Beaumont. We have met with men of greater talents, of higher rank, of equal learning, and of finer powers of conversation; but we never met with one who represented so gracefully and naturally the man of rank, of learning, and of literature. He had all the easy dignity which we assign to the Sidneys and the Raleighs of Elizabeth's court; united to the polished manners, refined taste, and sense of propriety which distinguish that of George the Fourth. His kindliness of nature and generosity of heart were his own. The man and his manners had a dignity about them which were inherited, not copied. His learning was extensive, and sat gracefully on him, like an every day dress; while his love of literature, and his admiration of art, dawned modestly out, and brightened upon you fuller and fuller.

He was of old descent, and had reason to be proud of it, for he came from a race of great warriors and poets, yet he was not proud; he had cause to be vain of his possessions, for they were ample, and of that picturesque kind which the owner loved, yet he was not vain; he had also good cause to be proud of his learning, his