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rogue,

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,

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"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.

RETALIATION,

A POEM.

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

F

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

vour:

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain;

And Douglass is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a sailad; 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 1* is lamb;
That Hickey's "la capon; and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner su 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,

To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You've got an odd something—a kind of discern-To
ing-

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of alt that's your

own:

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
'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: [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.

[sir,

For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; | Macpherson 16 write bombast, and call it a style;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expe- Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall
dient.
compile ;
[over,
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench o a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman,and cheat in the
dark.

In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies bonest William, whose heart was a
mint,
[was in't;
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
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;
[none;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
his own.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who
can,

An abridgement 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,

Here lies honest Richard 13, 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 flatt'ring 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 crow'd
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 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 Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostures, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking di-
vines,
[reclines:
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant
When satire and censure encircled his throne;
1 fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own:
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds 14 shall be pious, our Kenricks 15 shall
lecture;

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.
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, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
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 pleas'd he could whistle
them back.

Of praise a mere glutton,he swallow'd 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, '7 and Woodfalls' so
grave,
[you gave!
What a commerce was your's, while you got and
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you
rais'd,
[prais'd!
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an 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 Shakespeare 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!

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:
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 civally steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard
of hearing;
[and stuff,
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,
He shifted his trumpet 19, and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

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

man:

Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun 2;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flatt'ry, 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 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 Woodfall 3 confess'd him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling

folks!

Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'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
press *.
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I
admit
[wit:
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said

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To Johnson, philosophic sage,
The moral Mentor of the age,
With melting heart, but look austere,
Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
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,
And warm the bosoms of the Graces.
With ruddy light refresh the faces,

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 Dean' of Derry, A bumber of conventual sherry!

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

1 Dr. Barnard.

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 HERMIT.

A BALLAD.

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.

SIR,

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,

1

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,
"To tempt the dang'rous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"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
Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

The Friar of Orders Grey. Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243.

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