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performance, when there happens to be no singer. I mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to set the bass to these, which he assures me he will do con amore, and with much greater attention than he ever bestowed on any thing of the kind. But for this last class of airs I will not attempt to find more than one set of verses.

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started I know not how many difficulties, about writing for the airs I sent to him, because of the peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one I have yet got from him, being for the fine air“ Lord Gregory.” The Scots verses printed with that air, are taken from the middle of an old ballad, called The Loss of Lochroyan, which I do not admire. I have set down the air therefore as a creditor of yours. Many

. of the Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour; might not the best of these be included in our volume of comic songs?



MR. THOMSON has been so obliging as to give me a perusal of your songs. Highland D 2



Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray possesses native genuine humour; “ spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that should make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you from our mutual friend C., who is a most excellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and amorous; I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall not betray your confidence.

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26th January, 1793. I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans, Dr.Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure.


On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of ny acquaintance with him from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that, in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise; Lochaber, and the Braes of Ballenden, excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be escertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine

Scots muse.

of every

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but would it give no offence? In the mean time, do not you think that some of them, particularly The sow's tail to Geordie, as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs ?

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every

air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naïveté, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliñess of our native music, than any English verses whatever.

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.


O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,

And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,

Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may na be.


Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied ?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;


fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above

Your willing victim see!
But spare, and pardon my

and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!*


* The song of Dr. Walcott, on the same subject, is as follows:

Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door!

A midnight wanderer sighs;
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,

And lightnings cleave the skies.


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