(First printed in 1771, after the Author's death.
[Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.]
Or old, when Scarron 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 deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains,
Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains,
Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour:
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas**
** is pudding, substantial and plain
Our Garrick's†† a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb;
That Hickney's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
The master of St. James's coffee-house, where the doctor, and his friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.
+ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
Mr. Edmund Burke.
Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and Member for Bedwin.
Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.
** Doctor Douglas, cañon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.
++ David Garrick, Esq.
# Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. Sir Joshua Reynolds.
An eminent attorney.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
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 e'm out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em,
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 Townshend 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, 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 teazing 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 oll Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
• Vide page 26.
+ Ibid.
Mr. T. Townshend, Member for Whitchurch.
Vide page 26.
Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 26. fractured one of his arms and legs, at rallied him on those accidents, as a breaking his jests upon other people.
This gentleman having slightly different times, the doctor had kind of retributive justice for
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.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
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 bis characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that, vainly 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 Douglast 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 satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own:
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks§ shall lecture
Macpherson 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 dark.
Here lies David Garrick,†† describe him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor confest without rival to shine
As a wit. if not first, in the very first line :
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, a.fecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With ro reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day;
• Vide page 26.
Ibid.
The Rev. Dr. Dodd. Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil's Tavern, under the title of The School of Shakspeare.'
James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
Vide page 27.
** Vide page 26.
+ lbid.
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 swallowed 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,† and Woodfalls, so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
While he was be-Roscius'd and you were be-prais'd!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as as angel and mix with the skies:
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 one 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 judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, ** and only took snuff.
• Vide page 28.
Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
|| Vide page 27.
? Vide above.
¶ lbid.
** 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 liv'd, he is now a gravet 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 flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Wo scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mote 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 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 Woodfallt 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.§
Merry Whitefoord farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have honour, I had almost said wit;
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd muse."
• Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
+ 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.
Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under these titles in the Public Advertiser.
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