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Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern The Epilogue.
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. MRS. BULKLEY,
Air-A bonny young lad is my Jockey. The Epilogue ?
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it.
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. MISS CATLEY. Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. Recitative.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Make but of all your fortune one ou toute : Suspend your conversation while I sing. Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
“I hold the odds. Done, done, with you, with you." Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, of singing,
My lord,- Your lordship misconceives the case.” A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, Besides, a singer in a comic set
“I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:" Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette. Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party. What if we leave it to the house?
Air-Ballinamony. The house !-Agreed.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; Agreed.
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
For you're always polite and attentive, And first, I hope you'll readily agree
Still to amuse us inventive, I've all the critics and the wits for me;
And death is your only preventive: They, I am sure, will answer my commands:
Your hands and your voices for me. Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. What! no return ? I find too late, 1 fear,
Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, That modern judges seldom enter here.
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence. Who without your aid must die.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. Yes, I shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho,
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed ! The Moon, says he ;—but I affirm, the Stage: 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, But hold—let me pause —don't I hear you proWe scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
nounce, Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, This tale of the bacon's a damnabie bounce? And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, But in this parallel my best pretence is, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. That mortals visit both to find their senses; To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the haunch, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, Hither the affected city dame advancing, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. Twas a neck and a breast that might rival MonThe gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, But in parting with these I was puzzled again, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, With the how, and the who, and the where, and Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
the when. The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stored, There's H–d, and C-y, and H—rth, and H-ff, As “Dam'me, sir,” and “Sir, I wear a sword;" I think they love venison-1 know they love beef. Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, There's my countryman, Higgins--Oh! let him Goes out; affronts his man, and takes a beating. alone Here comes the sons of scandal and of news, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But find no sense-for they had none to lose. But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat, Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Your very good mutton is a very good treat; Our author's the least likely to grow wiser ; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, Has he not seen how you your favour place
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. On sentimental queens and lords in lace? While thus I debated, in reverie centred, Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-
Your own, I suppose--or is it in waiting ?"
Are pleased to be kind—but I hate ostentation."
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
“ If that be the case then,” cried he, very gay, THANKs, my lord, for your venison, for fineror fatter". I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
T'o-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
No words I insist on't-precisely at three; The fat was so white
, and the lean was so ruddy; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce
be there; help regretting
My acquaintance is slight, or I'dask my Lord Clare. To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû;
What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must, As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end: But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, No stirring—I beg--my dear friend—my dear They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
friend!” Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind. *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.
Lord Clare's nephew
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, “What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scol, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” Though I could not help thinking my gentleman "We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out; hasty,
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, Were things that I never disliked in my life, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife, A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, So next day in due splendour to make my approach, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake When come to the place where we all were to dinc, her? (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) That she came with some terrible news from the My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite baker: dumb,
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.
Sad Philomel thus--but let similes drop“For I knew it,” he cried; "both eternally tail, And now that I think on't, the story may stop. The one with his speeches, and t' other with To be plain, my gooul lord, it's but labour misplaced Thrale;
To send such good verses to one of your taste; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party You've got an odd something--a kind of discerning, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning; The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, At least, it's your temper, as very well known, They're both of them merry, and authors like you: That you think very slightly of all that's your own: The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this While thus he described them by trade and by
name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. 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
SONG. hot ; In the middle a place were the pasty-was not.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part, Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, Still, still on hope relies; And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; And every pang that rends the heart, So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
Bids expectation rise. While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, But what vex'd me most was that - Scottish
Adorns and cheers the way; rogue,
And still, as darker grows the night, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his
Emits a brighter ray.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain, “The tripe,'' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate
To former joys recurring ever, cheek,
And turning all the past to pain: "I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.” Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; "0_ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a And he who wants each other blessing, trice,
In thee must ever find a foe.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
To tell them the reason why anses had ears;
An't please you," quoth John, “I'm not given to
(Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dineil 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 witicism. He was called on for ReEPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* taliation, 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;
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was I don't think he'll wish to come back.
united; If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the
best dish; AN ELEGY
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
brains; Good people all, with one accord,
Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, Lament for Madam Blaize,
And Dickll with his pepper shall heighten the saWho never wanted a good word, —
vour; From those who spoke her praise."
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall The needy seldom pass'd her door,
obtain, And always found her kind;
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain; She freely lent to all the poor,
Our Garrick'stt a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, She strove the neighbourhood to please That Ridgetf is anchovy, and Reynoldsøg is lamb;
With manners wondrous winning; That Hickey'sllll a capon, and by the same rule, And never follow'd wicked ways, - Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. Unless when she was sinning
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? At church, in silks and satins new,
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, With hoop of monstrous size;
Till all my companions sink under the table; She never slumber'd in her pew,
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, But when she shut her eyes,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more;
• The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the The king himself has follow'd her,- doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, OCWhen she has walk'd before.
1 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. But now her wealth and finery fled,
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
& Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, Her hangers-on cut short all;
and member for Bedwin. The doctors found, when she was dead,
I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
1. Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian."
“Fashionable Lover,” “The Brothers," and various other Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
productions, For Kent-street well may say,
“ Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of That had she lived a twelvémonth more,
Salisbury), an lugenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis
tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound She had not died to-day.
critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and
Bower's History of the Popes. This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; 17 David Garrick. Esq. but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. # Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, Irish bar. and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated $5 Sir Joshua Reynolds Voltaire's Henriade,
!! An eminent attorney.
Here lies the good dean, * re-united to earth, A flattering painter, who made it his care Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. mirth :
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, And comedy wonders at being so fine; At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'ein. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Here lies our good Edmund,t whose genius was Of virtues and feeling, that folly grows proud; such,
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, Say, where has our poet this malady caught, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault? Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his Say, was it that vainly directing his view throat
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, To persuade Tommy Townshendi to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, vote:
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, And thought of convincing, while they thought of The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks; dining:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; reclines: For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient; When satire and censure encircled his throne, And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. I fear'd for your safety, I feard for my own; In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, But now he is gone, and we want a detector, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall
lecture; Here lies honest William, $ whose heart was a
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, mint,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall comWhile the owner ne'er knew half the good that
pile: was in't;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; No countryman living their tricks to discover
over, Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
dark. What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, Here lies honest Richard, ll whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; sigh at;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine; Alas, that such frölic should now be so quiet? As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, · Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; That we wish'd him full ten times a-Jay at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting Nick;
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day: As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick: The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle Doctor Bernard.
• The Rev. Dr. Dodd. IMr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under having slighily fractured one of his arms and legs at different the title of “The School of Shakspeare." times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere furu of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon othor people of his style, wroto down the first poet of all antiquity.