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.

POSTSCRI PT.

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 depy it who can, Though he merrily liv’d, he is now a † grave map: 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 Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free Å scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind

a 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;"

#Mr. Caleb Whiteloord, author of many humorous essays.

+ Mr. W. was so notorious & punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning

Whose

Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall * confess'd him a wit.

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 Thata 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

« Masie."

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

ز

AH me! when shall 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 send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has 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 agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, “The “Humours of Balamagairy," 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 farewel. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

James Boswell.

But

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.

:

PROOGUE