Whereas some evil-minded folks,
It ill becomes to crack such jokes,
Have made a most unseemly rout,
By spreading false reports about,
That FRANCIS MOORE, the fam'd _Physician_,
Is _still alive_, in sound condition;
And all we said about his dying,
Last year, was nothing else but lying;
Our gravity was all a hoax,—
Our sober sayings only jokes—
'Twas but a trick to gain his pelf,
And lay the Conj'ror on the shelf,
That he might be as much forgotten
As tho' _in earnest_ dead and rotten;
And thereby fill with consternation
The _ancient female population_.
To prove this true, they say that MOORE,
Who, they assert, is _not_ "NO MORE,"
Gives out predictions quite as clever,
And full of sense and truth,—_as ever_!
Shade of the mighty Seer! look down,
And blast the wretches with thy frown!
_Thou_ know'st on _us_ thy mantle fell;
Thou know'st, too, that it fits us well.
But baser caitiffs go much further,
And tax us with committing _murther_!
They swear we burst into his room,
And quickly seal'd his dreadful doom;
For that we hocuss'd first his drink,
Then poison'd him with _writing ink_;
And having thrown him on the floor,
We basely _burk'd_ the gracious MOORE!
They vow we did this bloody deed
That we might to his fame succeed;
But good, they say, can't come of ill,
For let us do whate'er we will,
We never shall,—and that is plain,—
The _fools_ or the _old women_ gain.
Now, to confirm this idle talk,
They swear they've seen his spectre walk;
And that he's got a strange vagary,
At times, to be quite STATIONARY,
And haunt a certain place, where he
Affects Old Women's COMPANY,
Who, spite of all we've sung or said,
Cannot believe that he is dead,
But to persuade themselves they try
That FRANCIS MOORE can _never_ die!
Now, having gather'd facts like these
(Enough to cause one's blood to freeze),
We've issued forth this Proclamation
To all the lieges of the nation,
(Surmounted by MOORE'S arms and crest,
Of which by right we've 'come possest,)
To seize the knave, and maul him sore,
Who passes off for FRANCIS MOORE;
(That is, if any such there be,
Of which we're much in dubity)
For FRANCIS MOORE, whom we succeed,
Is _very—very dead_, indeed.
But should it prove a real ghost,
Who, with a _Fool's-cap_, takes his _Post_,
To grasp the _Crown_ we've fairly got,
We warn him he shall go to _Pot_,
And in the Red Sea soon be _laid_;
Or to his _warm_ berth posted back,
Where he'll be _hotpress'd_ in a crack,
Unless his exit's quickly made;
For none but nincompoops and fools
Let "dead men push them from their stools."
(Signed) RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.
┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────────┐
│ JANUARY. │ [1836.│
├─────────────┬────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────────┤
│ │"Kind Reader!" (as old Francis always said,) │
│ │Beware of counterfeits, for Frank is dead; │
│ │Some Quack survives—_physician_—if he will, │
│ │To swallow, of _our physic_, many a pill. │
│ │We'll spread the caustic 'midst the town's applause, │
│ │And thank the public that the blister _draws_. │
├──┬──────────┼────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────────┤
│ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │
│ D│ Signs. │ │ │
├──┼──────────┼────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────────┤
│ 1│When it │ │ │
│ │ │ │ My │
│ 2│freezes │ "HARD FROST." │ │
│ │ │ │ profound │
│ 3│and │The day is clear, the frost is │ │
│ │ │ hard,— │ │
│ │ │ I very much incline, │ │
│ 4│blows │As I'm a _dab_, to have a _skate_ │ △ ⚹ ☉ │
│ │ │ Upon the SERPENTINE. │ │
│ 5│take │ │ │
│ │ │There's Mr. Tait,—he cuts an eight; │prognostifications│
│ 6│care of │ He cannot cut a nine; │ │
│ │ │And I could cut as good a _figure_ │ │
│ 7│your │ On the SERPENTINE. │ of the │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 8│nose │I _hate_ the _eight_ of Mr. Tait, │ │
│ │ │ For he's no friend of mine; │ weather │
│ 9│that it │He used me once so ungenteely │ │
│ │ │ On the SERPENTINE. │ │
│10│doesn't │ │ │
│ │ │For in the _tête_ of Mr. Tait │ ☿ △ ♂ ☉ ⚹ │
│11│get │ There harbour'd a design, │ │
│ │ │To break the ice with Sophy Price │ for │
│12│froze │ Upon the SERPENTINE. │ │
│ │ │ │ the past │
│13│and │He cut in there, and cut me out │ │
│ │ │ Of my sweet Valentine, │ year │
│14│wrap up │Which cut quite cut me to the heart,│ │
│ │ │ Upon the SERPENTINE. │ │
│15│your │ │ │
│ │ │She cut me, while I thought that I │ □ ☌ ⚹ ☉ │
│16│toes in │ Was cutting such a shine, │ │
│ │ │By cutting out her pretty name │ have all │
│17│warm │ Upon the SERPENTINE. │ │
│ │ │ │ proved │
│18│worsted │So, Billy, bring my polish'd │ │
│ │ │ skates,— │ │
│ │ │ My love I wont resign; │ so correct, │
│19│hose. │She meets her _knight_, I know, │ │
│ │ │ _to-day_, │ │
│ │ │ Upon the SERPENTINE. │ │
│20│At │ │ │
│ │ │And if my _sweet_ wont follow │ □ ♄ │
│ │ │ _suite_, │ │
│21│night │ But still my _suit_ decline, │ │
│ │ │The thaw I'll wait, to seal my fate,│ □ ☿ ♄ △ ♂ │
│22│ere you │ All _in_ the SERPENTINE. │ │
│ │ │ │ and │
│23│slip │ │ │
│ │ │ │ I have │
│24│into │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│25│bed │ │ │
│ │ │ │ ☉ □ △ │
│26│you │ │ │
│ │ │ │ herein, │
│27│may │ │ │
│ │ │ │ as well as │
│28│sip a │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│29│can of │ │ │
│ │ │ │ ☍ ☌ △ ♄ │
│30│good │ │ │
│ │ │ │ in all │
│31│flip. │ │ │
└──┴──────────┴────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────────┘
[Illustration:
JANUARY.—"Hard Frost."
]