Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys 7, and Woodfalls 18
grave,

[you gave! What a commerce was yours, while you got and How did Grub-street reecho the shouts that you raised,

[praised! While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beBut peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies: Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will: Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with

love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant

creature, 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? I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: 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! [ye,Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

a

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ;

, His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, bis manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still hard

of hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregio's,

and stuff, He shifted his trumpet', and only took snuff.

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 Dr. Goldsmith.]

Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived he is now a grave ? man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ?
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flattery, 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 free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

19 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

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.

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2

3

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined !
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 were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall 3 confess'd him a wit.

Yenewspaper witlings! ye pertscribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and reecho'd 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 4. Merry Whitefoord,farewell! forthy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, [wit: • Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd

Muse.'

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To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to find

added the following POETICAL EPISTLÉ TO DR. GOLDSMITH.

OR,

Supplement to his Retaliation. FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOR AUGUST, 1778. Doctor, according to our wishes, You've character'd us all in dishes; Served up a sentimental treat Of various emblematic meat:

3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

+ Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

Y

Your

And now it's time, I trust, you'll think

I company

should have some drink : Else, take my word for it, at least Your Irish friends wont like

your

feast. Ring, then, and see that there is placed To each according to his taste.

To Douglas, fraught with learned stock
Of critic lore, give ancient hock;
Let it be genuine, bright, and fine,
Pure unadulterated wine;
For if there's fault in taste, or odour,
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder.

To Johnson, philosophic sage,
The moral Mentor of the age,
Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
With melting heart, but look austere,
Give liquor of an honest sort,
And crown

his

cup with priestly Port. Now fill the glass with gay champagne, And frisk it in a livelier strain; Quick, quick the sparkling nectar quaff, Drink it, dear Garrick!-drink and laugh!

Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint, Rich Burgundy, of ruby tint; If e'er his colours chance to fade, This brilliant hue shall come in aid, With ruddy lights refresh the faces, And warm the bosoms of the Graces !

To Burke a pure libation bring, Fresh drawn from clear Castalian spring; With civic oak the goblet bind, Fit emblem of his patriot mind; Let Clio at his table sip, And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Fill out my friend, the dean of Derry,
A bumper of conventual sherry !

Give Ridge and Hickey, generous souls !
Of whisky punch convivial bowls;
But let the kindred Burkes regale
With potent draughts of Wicklow ale;
To C*****k next in order turn ye,
And grace him with the vines of Ferney!

Now, Doctor, you're an honest sticker,
So take your glass, and choose your liquor:
Wilt have it steep'd in Alpine snows,
Or damask'd at Silenus' nose?
With Wakefield's vicar sip your tea,
Or to Thalia drink with me?
And, Doctor, I would have you know it,
An honest, I, though humble poet;
I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover road,
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade:
Hence with all such! for

you

and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire:
Here, boy !-a pot of Thrale's entire!

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THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION,

A Tale.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Bookworm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;