The lines--there are twenty-eight of them--speak of Whitefoord as, among
other things, a
Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;[82]
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 would fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free,
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";
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if _Woodfall_ confess'd him a wit.
Note:
[82] "Mr, W."--says a note to the fifth edition--"is so notorious a
punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say, it was impossible to keep
him company, without being infected with the _itch_ of _punning_." Yet
Johnson endured him, and apparently liked him, though he had the
additional disqualification of being a North Briton.
The "servile herd" of "tame imitators"--the "news-paper witlings" and
"pert scribbling folks"--were further requested to 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_.
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