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 Doctor Goldsmith. 2 HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind 2 Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 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. 3 Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit. This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd Muse. >> 'Mr Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. SONG: INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' AH me! when shall I marry me? Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally, and combat the ruiner: Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 'SIR,-I send you a small production of the late Dr Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of « She Stoops to Conquer,» but it was left out, as Mrs Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called << The Humours of Balamagairy,» to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affec tionate care. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE; A TRAGEDY: WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII. SPOKEN BY MR QUICK. In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: [Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em. [Pit. [Balconies. Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage. [Tasting them. I heard a hissing-there are serpents here! O, there the people are best keep my distance: Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid her, This is his first adventure, lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war. What, no reply to promises so ample? I'd best step back-and order up a sample. |