YeKenricks(a),yeKellys(b), and Woodfalls(c) fo grave, To act as an angel and mix with the skies: 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 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! Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert fcribbling folks! (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, "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 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: But hang it to poets, who feldom can eat, Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt— 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!" |