Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatt'rers, 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 crea

ture,

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 obliging 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!

Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye,— He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

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, 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, Corregio's, and

stuff,

He shifted his trumpet 1, and only took snuff.

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

POSTSCRIPT.

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord 1, from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave2 man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun?
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger 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 free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

2 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.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind

Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd!
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 Woodfall3 confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'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 press1. Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd muse."

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

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

To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to find added the following

POETICAL EPISTLE 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;
Serv'd up a sentimental treat

Of various emblematic meat:

And now it's time, I trust, you'll think
Your company should have some drink:
Else, take my word for it, at least
Your Irish friends won't like your feast.
Ring, then, and see that there is plac'd
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.