| |
| OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, | |
| Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. | |
| If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, | |
| Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish: | |
| Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains, | 5 |
| Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains, | |
| Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, | |
| And Dick with his pepper, shall heighten the savour: | |
| Our Cumberland’s sweetbread its place shall obtain, | |
| And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: | 10 |
| Our Garrick’s a salad; for in him we see | |
| Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: | |
| To make out the dinner full certain I am, | |
| That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb: | |
| That Hickey’s a capon, and by the same rule, | 15 |
| Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. | |
| At a dinner so various, at such a repast, | |
| Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last? | |
| Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I’m able, | |
| Till all my companions sink under the table; | 20 |
| Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, | |
| Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. | |
| Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, | |
| Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: | |
| If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, | 25 |
| At least, in six weeks I could not find them out; | |
| Yet some have declared, and it can’t be denied’em, | |
| That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide’em. | |
| Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, | |
| We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; | 30 |
| Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind, | |
| And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: | |
| Tho’fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat | |
| To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; | |
| Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, | 35 |
| And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; | |
| Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; | |
| Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; | |
| For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient; | |
| And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. | 40 |
| In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir, | |
| To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. | |
| Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, | |
| While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in’t; | |
| The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, | 45 |
| His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; | |
| Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, | |
| The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; | |
| Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; | |
| What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. | 50 |
| Here lies honest Richard whose fate I must sigh at; | |
| Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet! | |
| What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! | |
| Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! | |
| Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! | 55 |
| Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! | |
| In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, | |
| That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick; | |
| But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, | |
| As often we wish’d to have Dick back again. | 60 |
| Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, | |
| The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; | |
| A flattering painter, who made it his care | |
| To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. | |
| His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, | 65 |
| And comedy wonders at being so fine: | |
| Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out, | |
| Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. | |
| His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd | |
| Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud; | 70 |
| And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, | |
| Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. | |
| Say, where has our poet this malady caught? | |
| Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? | |
| Say, was it that vainly directing his view | 75 |
| To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few, | |
| Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, | |
| He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? | |
| Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, | |
| The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: | 80 |
| Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, | |
| Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines: | |
| When satire and censure encircled his throne, | |
| I fear’d for your safety, I fear’d for my own; | |
| But now he is gone, and we want a detector, | 85 |
| Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kendricks shall lecture; | |
| Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; | |
| Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; | |
| New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, | |
| No countryman living their tricks to discover; | 90 |
| Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, | |
| And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. | |
| Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, | |
| An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man: | |
| As an actor, confess’d without rival to shine; | 95 |
| As a wit, if not first, in the very first line: | |
| Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, | |
| The man had his failings—a dupe to his art. | |
| Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, | |
| And beplaster’d with rouge his own natural red. | 100 |
| On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; | |
| ’Twas only that when he was off he was acting. | |
| With no reason on earth to go out of his way, | |
| He turn’d and he varied full ten times a day: | |
| Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick | 105 |
| If they were not his own by finessing and trick: | |
| He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, | |
| For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. | |
| Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow’d what came, | |
| And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; | 110 |
| Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, | |
| Who pepper’d the highest was surest to please. | |
| But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, | |
| If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. | |
| Ye Kendricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, | 115 |
| What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave! | |
| How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, | |
| While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-praised! | |
| But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, | |
| To act as an angel and mix with the skies: | 120 |
| Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, | |
| Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; | |
| Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, | |
| And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. | |
| Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, | 125 |
| And slander itself must allow him good nature; | |
| He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper; | |
| Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. | |
| Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? | |
| I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: | 130 |
| Too courteous perhaps, or obligingly flat? | |
| His very worse foe can’t accuse him of that: | |
| Perhaps he confided in men as they go, | |
| And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! | |
| Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye,— | 135 |
| He was, could he help it? a special attorney. | |
| Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, | |
| He has not left a wiser or better behind. | |
| His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; | |
| His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; | 140 |
| Still born to improve us in every part, | |
| His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: | |
| To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, | |
| When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; | |
| When they talk of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, | 145 |
| He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. | |
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