PROCLAMATION.

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.

JANUARY.—"Hard Frost."