BY JOHN WILSON, THE SCOTTISH VOCALIST. EDINBURGH: 1849. Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, May 20, 1849. We left the City of Rooks, as Nashville is called, on Thursday morning at half-past four, and travelled ninety miles to our place of destination for the night, which occupied 19 hours. The stages in this part of the country lose a great deal of time needlessly by stopping for meals a great deal oftener than people require them. During our ride we had breakfast at 21 miles from Nashville, at a place call

The necessary alterations having been made in the costume of my two daughters, namely, the petticoats being shortened, and trousers being donned—pants, I ought to have said, for trousers are never named here, and breeches are never made—and caps being placed upon their craniums, a gentleman, who accompanied us from Nashville, and myself, having been provided with coats that had been coats once, and low-crowned soft hats, we set off for the cave. We were fortunate in getting the services of the f

To-day there were three grand points of the cave which we hoped to visit, namely, the Chief City or Temple, the Mammoth Dome, and the Fairy Grotto. We entered about seven o’clock, after a capital breakfast at the hotel, and passed over a good deal of the ground we visited yesterday. We left Audribow’s Avenue on our left, came to the Church again, which we could not help taking another look at, went on through the Main Cave, passing the Giant’s Coffin, coming to the Great Bend, then entering agai

Although we had a day’s rest yesterday, it being Sunday, my eldest daughter was not sufficiently recovered from the fatigues of Saturday to encounter another day’s journeying in the cave, which might perhaps be more fatiguing than any we had yet undergone, and so my youngest and myself sallied forth, both of us being very anxious to see the ferlies across the river. It has been doubtful for some days whether we should be able to cross the river, for, like all the rivers for a considerable time p

Auld Scotia now may sigh aloud, Her tears in torrents fa’, Her sweetest harp now hangs unstrung, Since Wilson’s ta’en awa’. He sang o’ a’ her warlike deeds, An’ sons that gallant were— Her hoary towers, an’ snaw-clad hills, An’ maidens sweet and fair. His was a harp o’ thrillin’ sound, Could pleasure aye impart; Its melody o’ bygane days Gaed hame to ilka heart. Its strains could bring remembrance back To youthfu’ days at school; Or mak’ us sigh for Scotia’s wrangs, An’ Flodden’s day o’ dool. He