  Of old, when ScarrÒn12 his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself—and he brings the best dish; Our Dean13 shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our Burke14 shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will15 shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour; And Dick16 with his pepper shall heighten their savour; Our Cumberland’s17 sweet-bread its place shall obtain; And Douglas18 is pudding, substantial and plain; Our Garrick’s19 a salad, for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree; To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Ridge20 is anchovy, and Reynolds21 is lamb; That Hickey’s22 a capon, and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I’m able, Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth, Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth; If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt— At least, in six weeks I could not find them out; Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied them, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide them. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend23 to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit: Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in ’t; The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam— The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard,24 whose fate I must sigh at; Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest—and now breaking a limb; Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball; Now teasing and vexing—yet laughing at all! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish’d to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine! Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that mainly directing his view To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas25 retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines— Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines! When satir POSTSCRIPT Here Whitefoord32 reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv’d, 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; 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 Woodfall33 confess’d him a wit. Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, 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 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.34 Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse— “Thou best-humour’d man, with the worst-humour’d muse.” FOOTNOTES:12Paul ScarrÒn, a popular French writer, who died in 1660. 13Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland. 14Edmund Burke. 15Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway. 16Mr. Richard Burke. 17Richard Cumberland, author of “The West Indian,” and other dramatic pieces. 18Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury. 19David Garrick, the actor. 20An Irish barrister. 21Sir Joshua Reynolds. 22An eminent attorney. 23Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney. 24Richard Burke had broken a leg, about seven years before this poem was written. 25Douglas had vindicated Milton from the insolence of Lauder, ingeniously refuted the cavils of Hume, and exposed Bower. 26The Rev. Dr. Dodd. 27Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures, under the title of “The School of Shakspere.” 28James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian. 29Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “School for Wives,” &c. 30Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 31Sir Joshua Reynolds used an ear-trumpet in company. 32Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so fond of punning, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be in his company without being infected with the disorder. 33Mr. H.S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 34Mr. Whitefoord contributed papers on these subjects to the Public Advertiser. THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION Secluded from domestic strife, Jack Book-Worm led a college life; A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive; He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke, And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke. Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care, Could any accident impair? Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix Our swain, arriv’d at thirty-six? Oh! had the Archer ne’er come down To ravage in a country town; At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop! Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. Oh!—but let exclamation cease; Her presence banish’d all his peace! So, with decorum all things carried, Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married. The honey-moon like lightning flew; The second brought its transports, too; A third, a fourth, were not amiss; The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss: But when a twelvemonth pass’d away, Jack found his goddess made of clay— Found half the charms that deck’d her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the worst remain’d behind— That very face had robb’d her mind. Skill’d in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. ’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace— Half naked at a ball or race; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? To decency so fine thing? In short—by night, ’twas fits or fretting; By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder’d coxcombs at her levee; The ’squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations. Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke; While all their hours were pass’d between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus, as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown: He fancies every vice she shows Or thins her lip, or points her nose; How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz— And, though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose, As each a different way pursues— While sullen or loquacious strife Promis’d to hold them on for life— That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty’s transient flower, Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell’d its terrors at the fair; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a—perfect fright. Each former art she vainly tries, To bring back lustre to her eyes; In vain she tries her pastes and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams: Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; The ’squire himself was seen to yield, And even the captain quit the field. Poor madam, now condemn’d to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old. With modesty her cheeks are dy’d; Humility displaces pride: For tawdry finery is seen, A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a—perfect beauty. |
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