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YeKenricks(a),yeKellys(b), and Woodfalls(c) fo grave,
Whata commerce was yours, while you got and yougave?
How did Grub-street re-echo the fhouts that you rais'd,
While he was be-Rofcius'd, and you were beprais'd?
But peace to his fpirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Thofe poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall ftill be his flatterers, go where he will-
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Behns be his Kellys above.
HereHickey(d) reclines,a moft blunt pleasant creature,
And flander 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 mifer?
I answer, no, no- -fer he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accufe him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And fo was too foolishly honeft? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye-
He was-could he help it-a special attorney.

Here Reynolds(e) is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wifer or better behind:

His pencil was ftriking, refiftlefs, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part-

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

(a) Vide page 66.

(6) Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of Falfe Delicacy, &c. &c. (c) Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. (d) Vide page 64. (e) Vide page 64.

To coxcombs averfe, yet moft civilly steering, Whentheyjudg'dwithoutskill, hewas still hard of hearing; When they talk'd of theirRaphaels, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet(ƒ), and only took fnuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Tho' he merrily liv'd(g), 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, fincereA ftranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill: A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice freeA scholar, yet furely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that fo liberal a mind

Should fo long be to Newspaper Essays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could foar,
Yet content "if the table he fet in a roar;"
Whofe talents to fill any ftation was fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall(b) confefs'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert fcribbling folks!
Who copied his fquibs, and re-echo'd his jokes-
Ye tame imitators, ye fervile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb;

(f) Sir Joshua Reynolds was fo remarkably deaf as to be under the neceffity of ufing an ear-trumpet in company. (g) Mr. W. was so notorious a punfter, that Dr. Goldfmith used to say it was impoffible to keep him company without being infected with an itch for punning.

(h) Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

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 Miftakes of the Prefs.(i)
Merry Whitefoord, farewell!—for thy fake 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 muse.'

(i) Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under thofe titles in the Public Advertiser.

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her foul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing, we pay, and think even conquest dear— Quebec in vain shall teach the breast to glow, Whilst thy fad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And faw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquereft, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rife.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE-TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS,my Lord, for your venifon-for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter :
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy;
Tho' my ftomach was sharp, Icould scarce help regretting
To spoil fuch a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu—
As in fome Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
But hold let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, suppose it a bounce-fure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce-I proteft, in my turn,
It's a truth—and your Lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and ftaunch-
So.I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to difpofe

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:

*Lord Clare's nephew.

But in parting with thefe, I was puzzled again, With the how,and the who,and the where,and the when. There's H-d, and C―y, and H—rth, and H—ff,

I think they love venison-I know they love beef:
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh, let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.

But hang it to poets, who feldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt—
It's like fending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. "What have we got here?—Why, this is good eating; "Your own, I suppose-or is it in waiting?” "Why, whose should it be?”—cry'd I, with a flounce; "I get these things often"—but that was a bounce : "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, "Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation." "If that be the cafe then," cry'd he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way; "To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; "No words—I insist on't—precisely at three: "We'll have Johnfon,and Burke, all the wits will be there; "My acquaintance is flight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. “And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner, "We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. "What say you—a pasty—it shall, and it must; "And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. "Here, porter, this venison with me to Mile-end; "No ftirring, I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"

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