The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His "Gregory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. LORD GREGORY. O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.) Your remark on the first stanza of my "Highland Mary" is just, but I cannot alter it, without injuring the poetry. * * * * * VI. _20th March 1793._ My Dear Sir,--The song prefixed ("Mary Morison") is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. What is become of the list, etc., of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else. * * * * * VII. _7th April 1793. _ Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What, with my early attachment to ballads, your book, etc., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post!) and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae been" and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my last words; now for a few present remarks as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list. The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the Moor", and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion--pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!--the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to _make_ or _mend_. "For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming song; but "Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of "Logan Water" (for I know a good many different ones), which I think pretty-- Now my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me, and Logan braes. "My Patie is a lover gay", is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed. Then I'll resign and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony--