Here Hickey reclines, a moft blunt pleasant creature,
And flander itself muft allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relifh'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may afk if the man was a mifer:
I anfwer no, no, for he always was wifer:
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 fo was too foolishly honeft? ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tellit, and burn ye,-
He was, could he help it? a fpecial attorney.

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

He has not left a wifer or better behind;

That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and fet fire to the tail:

For the joy of each fex, on the world I'll beftow it,
This fcholar, rake, Chriftian, dupe, gamefter, and poet:
Though a mixture fo odd, he fhall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be GOLDSMITH his name ;
When on earth this ftrange meteor no more fhall appear,
YouHermes, fhall fetch him-to make us fport here.

On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.
A JEU D'ESPRIT.

ARE thefe the choice dishes the Doctor has fent us?

Is this the great poet whofe works fo content us?
This Goldfmith's fine feaft, who has written fine books?
Heaven fends us good meat, but the Devil fends cooks.

His pencil was striking, refiftless, 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 averfe, yet most civilly steering,

When they judg'd without skill, he was ftill hard of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and Ruff,

He fhifted his * trumpet, and only took fnuff.

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was fo remarkably deaf, as to be under the neceffity of ufing an ear-trumpet in company.

VOL. II.

I

POSTSCRIPT,

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 Doctor Goldfmith.

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 relifh'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whofe temper was generous, open, fincere ;
A ftranger to flatt'ry, a ftranger to fear;

Who fcatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whofe daily bons mots half a column might fill :
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A fcholar, yet furely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that fo lib'ral a mind
Should fo long be to news-paper effays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the fummit of science could foar,
Yet content "if the table he fet in a roar

* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous effays. + Mr. W. was fo notorious a punfter, that Doctor Goldsmith used to fay it was impoffible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

7

Whofe

Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall confefs'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 beftow on his fhrine; Then ftrew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the prefs.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy fake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost faid wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,

"Thou beft humour'd man with the worst humour'd "Mufe."

* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. + Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser,

Ан

AH 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.

* Sir, I fend you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally loft, had I not fecured it. He intended it as a fong in the character of Mifs Hardcaftle, 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 fung it himself in private companies Very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, "The Hu"mours 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 fo good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that feafon, little apprehending that it was a laft farewel. I preferve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,

Your humble fervant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

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