‘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; 150 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; 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