Farewell, my merry gentlemen,—let nothing you dismay; But take good heart, for tho' we part, we'll meet another day; I hope, next year, when, never fear, I'll have enough to say, And bring tidings of comfort and joy.
To start fair game has been my aim, and make imposture smart; To raise a laugh at many a calf the object of my heart, And "shoot at Folly as she flies," and fix her with my dart; And it's all for your comfort and joy.
Now don't despise my prophecies, and think 'em only jokes, They're just as true, I promise you, as those of other folks; And while old MOORE is such a bore, 'tis harmless sure to hoax, For it's all for your comfort and joy.
"Let TURKEY fear the Christmas near"—and ducks, if they are young, And apropos of _Quacks_,—the _game_ is up with Doctor Long, But tho' we've lost the _rubber_, we've in _tricks_ been pretty strong, And it's all for your comfort and joy.
We've toll'd the bell that rings the knell of Morison and Co., And _floor'd_ the funny Chancellor, with all his Penny Show, Who veers about to show the folk which way the wind doth blow, And it's all for your comfort and joy.
Our most uncommon Commons, and our very peerless Peers, In clearing off _old scores_, have burnt the house about their ears; Of such a nest of phœnixes I own I had my fears, But 'twas all for their comfort and joy.
Now let not those who've 'scaped my blows believe that I am fickle, For many a "Pure," who looks demure, I've put a rod in pickle, And if I'm here another year their backs I'll smartly tickle, So there's tidings of comfort and joy.
WHILE WE VENERATE WHAT IS DESERVING OF VENERATION, LET US NOT FORGET, THAT QUACKERY, KNAVERY, BIGOTRY, AND SUPERSTITION, ALWAYS MERIT EXPOSURE AND CASTIGATION.
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.