Whitefoord

HERE Whitefoord* reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he 'merrily' lived, he is now a 'grave' man;
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scattered 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 liberal a mind
Should so long be to news-paper essays confined;
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 confessed 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'.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for 'thy' sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,
'Thou best humoured man with the worst humoured muse.'

*Whitefoord
Caleb Whitefoorde, a Scottish wine merchant and art collector. His own obituary of Goldsmith was said to have been particularly venomous; this verse was published after Goldsmith's death and it treats him so lightly that there were suspicions that he had written it himself.

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