Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 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 pencil our faces, his manners our heart: 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. 1 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', from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 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. A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd! Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! wit: 1 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 2 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser, This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd muse'." 1 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 And now it's time, I trust, you'll think To Douglas, fraught with learned stock 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, 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, If e'er his colours chance to fade, Fit emblem of his patriot mind; 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 whiskey 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! * Dr. Barnard, |