Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave[24] man: Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun; Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced 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 newspaper essays confined! 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[25] confessed him a wit. Ye newspaper 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. Merry Whitefoord[26], 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." Footnote 23: Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. Footnote 24: Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with the itch of punning. Footnote 25: Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the "Public Advertiser." Footnote 26: Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces, under those titles, in the "Public Advertiser." [Illustration: A seated woman] SONG. "AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?" INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "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: Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. "Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go."