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.