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So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that d-'d Scottish [his brogue: With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and And, Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ;[my poison, Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.” "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." [a trice, "O-ho!" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty"-"A pasty "" repeated the Jew; "I dont care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'il mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; [that."
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak`d Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her?) [baker. That she came with some terrible news from the And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774,
AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.
Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-honse.— 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.
Our dean 3 shall be ven'son, just fresh from the plains ; [brains; Our Burke 3 shall be tongue, with the garnish of Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the sa
Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. [fish, "If our landlord' supplies us with beef and with Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
The master of St. James's coffee-house
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain;
And Douglass is pudding, substantial and plain:
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
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.
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
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: [his throat Though fraught with all learning, yet straining persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him vote; (fining, Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on reAnd 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;
where the doctor, and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.
* Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry in Ireland. 3 Mr. Edmund Burke.
Mr. William Burke, late secretary to ge neral Conway, aud member for Bedwin.
5 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.
7 Dr. Douglas, the late bishop of Salisbury, 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.
8 David Garrick, esq.
9 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.
10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.
"An eminent attorney.
11 Mr.T.Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; | Macpherson 16 write bombast, and call it a style;
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place,
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man:
Here lies honest Richard 13, whose fate I must
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet:
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
13 Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
14 The rev. Dr. Dodd.
15 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of The School of Shakespeare.
The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
Of praise a mere glutton,he swallow'd what came,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
16 James Macpherson, esq. who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
17 Mr. 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.
come, tell it, and | This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd muse."
Then what was his failing? 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:
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 grave
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
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
Yet content" if the table he set in a roar;"
Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes;
To Johnson, philosophic sage,
And crown his cup with priestly port.
Now fill the glass with gay champagne,
This brilliant hue shall come in aid,
To Burke a pure libation bring,
Fill out my friend, the Dean' of Derry, A bumber of conventual sherry!
Give Ridge, and Hickey, generous souls!
Now, doctor, you're an honest sticker,
1 Dr. Barnard.
I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765.
ΤΟ ADDRESSED THE THE FOLLOWING LETTER, PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, APPEARED IN THAT PAPER IN JUNE, 1767.
As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.
I am, sir,
Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think that there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I say him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.
"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
"Here to the houseless child of want
And though my portion is but scant,
"For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."
"Then turn to night, and freely share
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
Far in a wilderness obscure
The Friar of Orders Grey. Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243.