How did Grub-street reecho the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Roscius'd and you were be-praised! To act as an angel and mix with the skies: And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature; 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 snuff. 19 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord 1, from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 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; Should so long be to newspaper essays confined! Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! 3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 4 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to find added the following POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. GOLDSMITH; OR, Supplement to his Retaliation. FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOR AUGUST, 1778. DOCTOR, according to our wishes, Of various emblematic meat: And now it's time, I trust you'll think, To Douglas, fraught with learned stock 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, And crown his cup with priestly Port. Quick, quick, the sparkling nectar quaff, If e'er his colours chance to fade, Fit emblem of his patriot mind; Fill out, my friend, the dean 5 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 him with the vines of Ferney! 5 Dr. Bernard. |