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Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creatures
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 accufe 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 tellit, and burn ye,---
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds islaid, and, to tell you my mind,

,
He has not left a wiser 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 sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamefter, and poet:
Though a mixture fo odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals--be GOLDSMITH his name ;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You Hermes, fhall fetch him---to make us sport here.

a

On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whole works so content us ?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

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, his manners our heart :
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of

hearing :
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and

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

* Şir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company

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POSTSCRIPT.

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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 Goldlinith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a mi 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, fincere ; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A fcholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas ! that so lib’ral a mind
Should fo long be to news-paper eflays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content “if the table he set in a roar ;”

66

* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous essays.

+ Mr. W. was so notorious a punfter, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impoffible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning. 7

Whose

Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall * confess’d him a wit.

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 master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you feftoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) of Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the pressa

a

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 hum morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser,

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Ан me! when fhall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

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* Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured 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 sung it himself in private companies Very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, “The Hu66 mnours of Balamagairy,”to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has fucceeded very happily in these few lines. As I could fing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewel.

I preserve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

But

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