A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a miud Should so long be to news paper essays confin'! 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, Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and re echoed his jokes; Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, "Thou best-humor'd man with the worst humor'd muse.' *Mr. H. S Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON: THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu; They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable 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 gaz'd 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 lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis pose; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's ; But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's Hd, and C--y, and H-rth, and H-ff, I think they love venison-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, Lord Clare's nephew. |