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HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Tho' 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 humor at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill!
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was be.

What pity, alas ! that so lib’ral a mind
Should so long be to news-paper 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 news-paper 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 po less)
Cross-readings,ship-news,and mistakes of the press.
Merry Whitefoord farewel! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
"Thou best-humor'd man, with the worst-humor'd


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* 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.

+ 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 Adver


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To the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle,

Appeared in that Paper, in June, 1767.
As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper

controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one: and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of hav. ing taken a ballad, I published some time ago,

one * by the ingenious Mr, Percy. I do not think
there is any great resemblance between the two pieces
in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from
mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and
he (as we both considered these things as trifles at
best) told me with his usual good humor, the next
time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form
the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his
own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may
so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty
anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and,
were it not for the busy disposition of some of your
correspondents, the public should never have known
that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I
am obliged to his friendship and learning for com-
munications of a much more important nature.

I am, Sir,
Yours, &c.


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* The Fryar of Orders Gray, “Relig, of Anc, Poetry." Vol. I. p. 243,

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at thi vopiere

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

“ And guide my lonely way,
" To where yon taper cheers the vale

“With hospitable ray.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

“With fainting steps and slow;
“Where wilds, immcasurable spread,

" Seem length’ning as I go."
Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
"For yonder faithless phantom flies

"To lure thee to thy doom.
Here, to the houseless child of want,

“My door is open still ;
"And tho' my portion is but scant,

"I give it with good will.
"Then turn to-night, and freely share

" Whate'er my cell bestows ;
"My rushy couch and frugal fare,

“ My blessing and repose.
"No flocks that range the valley free,
"To slaughter I condemn :
* Taught by that Power that pities me,

"I learn to pity them.
" But from the mountain's grassy side,

" A guiltless feast I bring;
"A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'dh

"And water from the spring, "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;

“All earth-born cares are wrong: “Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long."


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Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends

And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray !
No stores beneath its humble thateh

Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil'd; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguild.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe a stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,

With answering care opprest:
« And whence, unhappy youth," he cry's,

“The sorrows of thy breast? “ Froin better habitations spurn'd,

«« Reluctant dost thou rove: " Or grieve for friendship unreturn!d,

" Or unregarded love?

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“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling and decay ; “And those who prize the paltry things,

“More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name,

“A charm that lulls to sleep; “A shade that follows wealth or fame,

“And leaves the wretch to weep! “And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair-one's jest: "On earth unseen, or only found

“To warm the turtle's nest. "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows bush,

"And spurn the sex," he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.
“And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,

“A wretch, forlorn,” she cry'd ;
“ Whose feet uphallow'd thus intrude

“ Where heaven and you reside.
But let a maid thy pity share,

“Whom love has taught to stray:
" Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.
My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

"A wealthy lord was he;
" And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

" He had but only me,

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