Postscript

After the Fourth Edition of this Poem was printed, the Publisher received an Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith, inclosed in a letter, of which the following is an abstract:—

‘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; 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 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 news-paper essays confin’d; Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content ‘if the table he set on a roar’; 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, 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.’