FTER the fourth edition of this poèm was printed, the publifher 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 lived, he is now a † grave man: Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fan! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoie'd in a pun; Whose temper was generous, open, fineere; A ftranger 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 ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind 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 Whitefcord, author of many humorous essays + Mr. W. was so notorious a punfter, that doctor Gold. {mith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.


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

Yenews-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his fquibs, and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you feltoons of the vine, And copious libations betow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no less)

Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the presse

Merry Whitefoord, farewel! for thy fake 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


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


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A 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 Hardqaftle, in his admirable comedy of “ She Stoops to Con

quer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who play'd the part, did not fing. He sung it himself, in private companies yery 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 Þas succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could


But I will rally and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and lofes a lover.

fing' the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about 1 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,

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In ,

these bold times, when Learning's fons explore, The diftant climates, and the favage shore; When wife astronomers to India fteer, And quit for Venus many a brighter here; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently-go fimpling, Our bård into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures.


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