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Here Hickey* reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea


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


He was....could he help it?....a special attorney.

Here Reynoldst is laid, and, to tell you my mind,

He has not left a wiser or better behind;

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His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;

His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;

* Vide page 74.

† Ibid.

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


He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff,


AFTER the fourth edition of this Poem was

printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, † from a friend of the late Doctor


* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

+ Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous






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:
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 bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotsman, 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 was fit,

Yet happy if Woodfallt confess'd him a wit.

* Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor 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.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!

Who copy'd 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)
Cro88-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.*
Merry Whitefoord, farewel! 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,


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* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Ad. vertiser.

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