Ye Kenricks, ye✶ Kellys, and † Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave? How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beprais'd; 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, * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith, in respect to that gentleman. JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE. HERE Hermes, says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions; Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, I answer No, no, for he always was wiser. 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; That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery. A JEU D'ESPRIT. ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us? His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, * He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. * 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*, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. + Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning. Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'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 press. Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd Muse." * Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. + Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. |