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What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content“ if the table be set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall3 confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and reecho'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 press4.

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.”

3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

4 Mr. Whitefoord has fregnently indulged the town with humorons pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

To this Postscript the Reader may not be displeased to find 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;
Served up a sentimental treat
Of various emblematic meat:
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 placed 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,

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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 mind ;
Let Clio at his table sip,
And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Fill out my friend, the deans of Derry,
A bumper of conventual sherry!

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

5 Dr. Barnard.

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 choose 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,
An 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 !

THE

DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

A Tale.

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, arrived at thirty-six ?
0, had the archer ne'er come down,
To ravage in a country town!

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