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How did Grub-street reecho the shouts that you

raised, While he was be-Roscius'd and you were be-praised! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies: Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will: Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with

love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a 'most blunt pleasant

creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps yon may ask if the man was a miser? I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that: Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn

ye,He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind: His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

To coxcombs averse, yet more civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still hard of

hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and

stuff, He shifted his trumpet 19, and only took spuff.

19 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.


After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher

received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord I, from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it wbo can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave? man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill :

i Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

2 Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being Infected with the itch of punning.

A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined !
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content“ if the table he set in a roar,"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall' confess’d him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied bis squibs, and reecho'd his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press4.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit Thata Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, “ Thou best humourd man with the worst hu

mour'd muse.”

3 Mr, H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Pablic Advertiser.

4 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with hamorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser,

To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to find

added the following


OR, Supplement to his Retaliation. FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOR AUGUST,


Doctor, according to our wishes,
You've character'd us all in dishes;
Served up a sentimental treat
Of various emblematic meat :
And now it's time, I trust you'll think,
Your company should have some drink :
Else, take my word for it, at least
Your Irish friends won't like your feast.
Ring, then, and see that there is placed
To each according to his taste.

To Douglas, fraught with learned stock
Of critic lore, give ancient hock;
Let it be genuine, bright, and fine,
Pure unadulterated wine;
For if there's fault in taste or odour,
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder.
To Johnson, philosophic sage,
The moral Mentor of the age,

Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
With melting heart, but look austere,
Give liquor of an honest sort,
And crown his cup with priestly Port.

Now fill the glass with gay Champagne,
And frisk it in a livelier strain;
Quick, quick, the sparkling nectar quaff,
Drink it, dear Garrick!-drink and laugh!

Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint, Rich Burgundy, of ruby tint; If e'er his colours chance to fade, This brilliant hue shall come in aid, With ruddy lights refresh the faces, And warm the bosoms of the Graces!

To Burke, a pure libation bring, Fresh drawn from clear Castalian spring; With civic oak the goblet bind, Fit emblem of his patriot mind; Let Clio at bis table sip, And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Fill out, my friend, the deans of Derry, A bumper of conventual sherry!

Give Ridge and Hickey, generous souls ! Of whisky punch convivial bowls; But let the kindred Burkes regale With potent draughts of Wicklow ale ; To C*****k next in order to turn ye, And grace bim with the vines of Ferney!

5 Dr. Bernard.

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