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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 most civilly steering, When they judg'd without sạill he was still hard

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

stuff, He shifted his trumpet', and only took snuff.

i 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 Dr. Goldsmith.

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

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1 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 puaning.

A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib’ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd! 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 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:

1 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

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

This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
« Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd

muse."

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i 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, 178.)

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Doctor, according to our wishes,
You've character'd us all in dishes;
Serv'd 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 plac'd
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,

i

1

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 light refresh the faces,
And warm the bosoms of the Graces!

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

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

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

* Dr. Barnard.

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