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Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature :
* Vide page 194.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
| Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chro nicle. Vide page 185.
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Here Reynolds * is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and
stuff, He shifted his trumpet, t and only took snuff.
• Vide page 192.
+ Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
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,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a gravet 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 flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scattered around wit and humour at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill: 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 perbaps 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 I confess'd him a wit.
* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many bumour. ons 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.
i Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser,
Ye newspaper-witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and re-echoed 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
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, • Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd
* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humourous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.