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New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross

over, No countryman living their tricks to discover

; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the

dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn’d and he varied full ten times a-day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick: He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them

back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye * Kellys, and † Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you

you gave!

* Mr Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clemen. tina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

+ Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais’d! But

peace to his spirit wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with

love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. I

| The following poems by Mr Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman.

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay,I will make an odd fellow !
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleas?d, without cause be he cross ;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn’d to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn’d to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen

with fine taste ;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail ;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet,
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And
among

brother mortals—be GOLDSMITH his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You, Hermes, shall fetch him--to make us sport here.

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ON DR GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY.

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us ?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

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 Reynolds 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 : 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.

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

47

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.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv’d, he is now at 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 bon 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 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 were fit, Yet happy if Woodfallf confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ;

* 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 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 humour, I had almost said wit. This debt to thy mem’ry I cannot refuse, “ Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu

mour'd Muse.”

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

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