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Macpherson 16 write bombast, and call it a style;

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 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


Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man:

As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:

Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
This man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
Like an ill judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And be-plaster'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:

16 James Macpherson, who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

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 pleased 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 17, 17, and Woodfalls 18 so grave, What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave!

How did Grub-street reecho the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel and mix with the skies:

17 Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

18 Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

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.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
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 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 judged without skill he was still hard of


When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and


He shifted his trumpet1, and only took snuff.

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


After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord', from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave2 man :
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced 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.

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

2 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.

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