‘I have in my possession a sheet of paper, containing near forty lines in the Doctor’s own hand-writing: there are many scattered, broken verses, on Sir Jos. Reynolds, Counsellor Ridge, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Whitefoord. The Epitaph on the last-mentioned gentleman is the only one that is finished, and therefore I have copied it, that you may add it to the next edition. It is a striking proof of Doctor Goldsmith’s good-nature. I saw this sheet of paper in the Doctor’s room, five or six days before he died; and, as I had got all the other Epitaphs, I asked him if I might take it. “In truth you may, my Boy,” (replied he,) “for it will be of no use to me where I am going.”’
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; 150Whose 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 bons mots half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; 155
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so lib’ral a mind
Should so long be to news-paper essays confin’d;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content ‘if the table he set on a roar’; 160
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall confess’d him a wit.
Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 165
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. 170
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, 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.’
SONG
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN
‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’
AH me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me:
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner: 5
Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover:
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, loses a lover.
TRANSLATION
CHASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
The simple plumage, or the glossy down
Prompt not their loves:—the patriot bird pursues 5
His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
Hence through their tribes no mix’d polluted flame,
No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame;
But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
Thinks black alone is beauty’s favourite hue. 10
The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest;
While the dark owl to court its partner flies,
And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes.