« VorigeDoorgaan »
Here Hickey* reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea
And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn
He was....could he help it?....a special attorney.
Here Reynoldst is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
* Vide page 74.
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff,
AFTER the fourth edition of this Poem was
printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t from a friend of the late Doctor
* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet
company. + Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though 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;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotsman, from pride and from prejudice free;
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 any station was fit,
Yet happy if Woodfallt confess'd him a wit.
* Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Gold. smith 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.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copy'd his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes;
Merry Whitefoord, farewel! 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
* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Ad. vertiser.