Let all the old pay homage to your merit; Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here; MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed! Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, "My lord,—Your lordship misconceives the case." THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see Tweed. His lunar, and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, THE HAUNCH OF VENISON; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: *This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered. But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. "What have we got here? Why this is good eating! Your own, I suppose-or is it in waiting?" "Why whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce; "I get these things often "--but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation." Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife, So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scol, 'Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. come; "For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot; In the middle a place were the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most was that dd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue, And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on: Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, "I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a pasty”—“A pasty!” repeated the Jew, "I don't care if I keep a corner for❜t too." See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1769. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop- FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, And still, as darker grows the night, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, And turning all the past to pain: Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 'An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses." Edinburgh, 1753. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* RETALIATION; A POEM. [Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dine l at the St. James's Coffee-house.-One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.] HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed, Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. AN ELEGY . Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish; Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, The needy seldom pass'd her door, Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways, Unless when she was sinning At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd her,When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead, Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day. This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated Voltaire's Henriade. brains; Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the sa vour; Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain; The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally.dined. ↑ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. § Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions. Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. 1t David Garrick. Esq. #Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar, $$ Sir Joshua Reynolds. II An eminent attorney. Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, his own. A flattering painter, who made it his care Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, When satire and censure encircled his throne, Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com. pile: New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet? As an actor, confest without rival to shine; That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting Nick; But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; Doctor Bernard. †The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. Mr. William Burke. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, The Rev. Dr. Dodd. † Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare." Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere forus of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. |