would wish
them to continue in future times: and if you would be so kind to this
undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others, that you would
think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the other
authors,--"Nill ye, will ye." One half of Scotland already give your
songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the
sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three
weeks.--

I am,

With the warmest sincerity, Sir,

Your obliged humble servant,--R. B.

* * * * *

LXXXIV.

TO JAMES HOY, ESQ.

AT GORDON CASTLE, FOCHABERS.

[In singleness of heart and simplicity of manners James Hoy is said,
by one who knew him well, to have rivalled Dominie Sampson: his love
of learning and his scorn of wealth are still remembered to his
honour.]

_Edinburgh, 6th November_, 1787.

DEAR SIR,

I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, but
a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered me that I ought to
send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything,
particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that
usually recurs to him--the only coin indeed in which he probably is
conversant--is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed,
and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: my return I intended
should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not
seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send
you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which,
on the whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still
more precious breath: at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a
very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose
further acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation.

The duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There
is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression
peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his
Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of "Tullochgorum," &c., and
the late Ross, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the
only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay with his
contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless
existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that
many-headed beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old
song; but