POSTSCRIPT

ΤΟ

RETALIATON.

After the fourth edition of RETALIATION was printed, the Publisher received the following EPITAPH on Mr. CALEB WHITEFOORD*, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith,

HERE

ERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, 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 flattery, 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 liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd!

Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

+ 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.

POSTSCRIPT TO RETALIATION.

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 *Woodfall confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper 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 t.
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour; I had almost said
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, [wit:
"Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd
muse §."

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

To this POSTSCRIPT the Reader may not be displeased to and added the following

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. GOLDSMITH,

OR,

SUPPLEMENT TO HIS RETALIATION.

[FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOR AUGUST, 1778.]

DOCTOR, according to our wishes,

You've character'd us all in dishes;

Serv'd up a sentimental treat

Of various emblematic meat a

SUPPLEMENT TO RETALIAΊΙΟΝ.

And now it's time, I trust, you'll think
Your company should have some drink :
Else, take my word for it, at least

Your Irish friends won't like your feast.
Ring, then, and see that there is plac'd
To each according to his taste.

To Douglas, fraught with learned stock
Of critic lore, give ancient hock;
Let it be genuine, bright, and fine,
Pure unadulterated wine;

For if there's fault in taste, or odour,
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder.
To Johnson, philosophic sage,

The moral Mentor of the age,
Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
With melting heart, but look austere,
Give liquor of an honest sort,

And crown his cup with priestly Port.

Now fill the glass with gay Champagne,

And frisk it in a livelier strain;

Quick, quick, the sparkling nectar quaff,
Drink it, dear Garrick !-drink and laugh!
Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint,
Rich Burgundy, of ruby tint;

If e'er his colours chance to fade,
This brilliant hue shall come in aid,
With ruddy lights refresh the faces,
And warm the bosoms of the Graces!
To Burke a pure libation bring,
Fresh drawn from clear Castalian spring;
With civic oak the goblet bind,

Fit emblem of his patriot inind;
Let Clio at his table sip,

And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Fill out my friend, the Dean of Derry,

A bumper of conventual sherry!

Give Ridge and Hickey, generous souls! Of whiskey punch convivial bowls ; But let the kindred Burkes regale With potent draughts of Wicklow ale!

Dr. Barnard.

64

SUPPLEMENT TO RETALIATION.

To C*****k next in order turn ye,
And grace him with the vines of Ferney!

Now, Doctor, you 're an honest sticker,
So take your glass, and chuse your liquor:
Wilt have it steep'd in Alpine snows,
Or damask'd at Silenus' nose?
With Wakefield's vicar sip your tea,
Or to Thalia drink with me?

And Doctor, I would have you know it,
And honest, I, though humble poet;
I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover road,
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade :
Hence with all such! for you and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire:
Here, boy!-a pot of Thrale's entire!

TIE

HERMIT.

A BALLAD.