Let all the old pay homage to your merit; Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here; MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed! Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see Tweed. His lunar, and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. * Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But in this parallel my best pretence is, That mortals visit both to find their senses; To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stored, As "Dam'me, sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;" Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here comes the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense-for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Our author's the least likely to grow wiser; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace? Without a star, a coronet, or garter, Flow can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the creature Still stoops among the low to copy nature. Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.* THE HAUNCH OF VENISON; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: But hold-let me pause don't I hear you pro nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnabie bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-M, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and mc. "What have we got here?-Why this is good eating! Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting?" Why whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce; "I get these things often "--but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation." Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables followed behind. •Lord Clare's nephew Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, come; "For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale; "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot, That she came with some terrible news from the And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning, A relish—a taste-sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, In the middle a place were the pasty—was not. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on: Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, "I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1769. FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, And turning all the past to pain: Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, THE CLOWN'S REPLY. An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses." Edinburgh, 1753. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* RETALIATION; A POEM. [Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dine at the St. James's Coffee-house.-One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.] HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed, Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. AN ELEGY Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish; Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; ON THE GLORY Of her sex, mrs. MARY BLAIZE.Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of GOOD people all, with one accord, The needy seldom pass'd her door, She strove the neighbourhood to please Unless when she was sinning At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd her,When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day. This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated Voltaire's Henriade. brains; Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the sa vour; Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain; The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. 1 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. § Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions. **Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. tt David Garrick. Esq. #Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. $$ Sir Joshua Reynolds II An eminent attorney. Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; A flattering painter, who made it his care To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, When satire and censure encircled his throne, Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style, New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross No countryman living their tricks to discover Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet? As an actor, confest without rival to shine; That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting Nick; But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, Doctor Bernard. The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. Mr. William Burke. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, The Rev. Dr. Dodd, ↑ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of The School of Shakspeare." I Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. |