Here Hickey* reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea

ture,

And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!

Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn

ye:....

He was....could he help it?....a special attorney.

Here Reynoldst 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 manners were gentle, complying, and bland;

* Vide page 74.

+ Ibid.

Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

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,

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 Goldsmith.

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous

essays.

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, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;

Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotsman, 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!

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 was fit,

Yet happy if Woodfall† confess'd him a wit.

* Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor 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 newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copy'd 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, farewel! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,

"Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd

muse."

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