This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,

"Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd

muse1."

1 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, 173.)

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,

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,
Fresh 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.

Now, Doctor, you're an honest sticker, So take your glass, and chuse your liquor: Wilt have it steep'd in Alpine snows, Or damask'd at Silenus' nose? With Wakefield's vicar sip your tea, Or to Thalia drink with me?

And, Doctor, I would have you know it,
An honest, I, though humble poet;
I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover road,
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade:
Hence with all such! for you and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire:
Here, boy!-a pot of Thrale's entire !

THE

HERMIT.

A BALLAD.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765.