The Editor of _Parodies_ purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “_The Altrive Tales_,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of _The Poetic Mirror_: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R―――― S―――― is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.” It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the _Poetic Mirror_ cannot be termed _Parodies_; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances. Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled “_Wat o’ the Cleuch_,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles _Marmion_, whilst _Lochinvar_ was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:―― WALSINGHAME’S SONG. O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch? The lad that has worrying tikes enow, Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch!