Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys', and Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was your's, 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 be-prais'd! 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 crea ture, And slander itself must allow him good-nature; 1 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. 2 Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 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 pencil our faces, his manners our heart: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet', and only took snuff. 1 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, . 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 punning. 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 station were fit, any 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 press3. 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. G |