Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va toute: Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, "My lord, Your lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party. MISS CATLEY. Air-Ballinamony. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, For you're always polite and attentive, MRS. BULKLEY, Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, MISS CATLEY. I'm for a different set. -Old men whose trade is And that our friendship may remain unbroken, Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. Recitative. What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken? INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here; A treasury for lost and missing things: [Exeunt Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a-year Lend me your hands. O fatal news to tell, Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see And they who lose their senses, there may find them. Tweed. His lunar, and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, Flow can the piece expect or hope for quarter? THE HAUNCH OF VENISON; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: in, *This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered. But hold-let me pause don't I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnabie bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife, So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come; "For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you: The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot; In the middle a place were the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; 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 "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot, "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that " "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, THE CLOWN'S REPLY. *See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had cars; Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1759 POEMS. 'An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ ΟΝ EDWARD PURDON. AN ELEGY RETALIATION; A POEM. 161 [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; ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of GOOD people all, with one accord, Who never wanted a good word, From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, She strove the neighbourhood to please At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, But now her wealth and finery fled, The doctors found, when she was dead, Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, She had not died to-day. This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated Voltaire's Henriade. brains; Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall vour; obtain, And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain; Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. 1 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. § Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions. **Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis. tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forge ries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. it David Garrick. Esq. #Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. §§ Sir Joshua Reynolds. II An eminent attorney. 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 'em out; . We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; throat To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 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 forced him along, A flattering painter, who made it his care Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, When satire and censure encircled his throne, Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; No countryman living their tricks to discover Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, Here lies honest Richard, || whose fate I must Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet? In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting 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; With no reason on earth to go out of his way, them back. The Rev. Dr. Dodd. 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. |