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A Poem.


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Or 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 deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains,

Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains,

Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,

And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the


*The master of St. James's coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.

+ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry in Ireland. Mr. Edmund Burke.

Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

|| Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

Our Cumberland's* sweet-bread its praise shall obtain,

And Douglast is pudding, substantial and plain :
Our Garrick'st 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

That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
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

Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, withchaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.

+ Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen: particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

David Garrick, Esq.

Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

|| Sir Joshua Reynolds.

An eminent attorney.

Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks 1 could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied

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; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for man


Though 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,

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, disobe


And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.

*Vide page 59.

+ Ibid.

Mr. T. Townshend, Member for Whitchurch.

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