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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 Goldsmith.

sincere ;

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 relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill: 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 news-paper 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 Woodfall | confess'd him a wit.

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

+ 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:

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

Ye news-paper 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 press.*

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit : This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, Muse." Thou best humor'd man with the worst humor'd

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

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Ahme! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty ; bu: fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could marry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which 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 sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreea. bly. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, “ The Humors of Balamagiary,” to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words ; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing 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 farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,












In these bold times when learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore ;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling,
Our bard in the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore,
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

[Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

[Pit. Here trees of stately size and billing turtles in 'em

[Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound- [Stage. And apples, bitter apples strew the ground;

[Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals I fear : I heard a hissing there are serpents here! O, there the people are best keep my distance ; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance ; Our ship’s well stor’d—in yonder creek we've laid her, His honor is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war. What, no reply to promises so ample ? I'd best step back and order up a sample.

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