Here Hickey reclines, a moft blunt pleasant creature, I answer no, no, for he always was wifer : Here Reynolds islaid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wifer or better behind; That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail : For the joy of each fex, on the world I'll bestow it, On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery. A JEU D'ESPRIT. ARE thefe the choice dishes the Doctor has fent us? His pencil was ftriking, refiftlefs, and grand ; His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averfe, yet moft civilly steering, When they judg'd without skill, he was ftill hard of hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and ftuff, He shifted his * trumpet, and only took snuff. * Sir Joshua Reynolds was fo remarkably deaf, as to be under the neceffity of ufing an ear-trumpet in company. VOL. II. I POSTSCRIPT 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. 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 scatter'd around wit and humour at will; What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to news-paper effays confin'd! Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous effays. + Mr. W. was fo notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to fay it was impoffible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning. 7 Whofe Whofe talents to fill any ftation were fit, Ye news-paper 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 mafter, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you feftoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then firew all around it (you can do no lefs) Cross-readings, fhip-news, and mistakes of the prefs. Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy fake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:. This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou beft humour'd man with the worst humour'd "Muse." * Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. + Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with hu morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. Ан AH me! when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me. * Sir, I fend you a fmall production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally loft, had I not fecured 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 fing. He fung it himself in private companies Very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, "The Hu"mours of Balamagairy,"to which, he told me, he found it very diffi. cult to adapt words; but he has fucceeded very happily in these few As I could fing the tune, and was fond of them, he was fo good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that feafon, little apprehending that it was a laft farewel. I preferve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, lines. Your humble fervant, JAMES BOSWELL. But |