  IN the dead of the night, when from beds that are turfy, The spirits rise up on old cronies to call, Came a shade from the shades on a visit to Murphy, Who had not foreseen such a visit at all. “Don’t shiver and shake,” said the mild Apparition, “I’m come to your bed with no evil design; I’m the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician, Once great like yourself in the Almanack line.” Like you I was once a great prophet on weather, And deemed to possess a more prescient knack Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together, The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack. With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion, I saw my old mantle lugg’d out from the shelf, Turn’d, trimmed, and brushed up, and again brought in fashion, I seem’d to be almost reviving myself! But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle— As too many cooks make a mull of the broth— To find that two Prophets were under my mantle, And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth. Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble, Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps; Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble, The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps! But think how the people would worship and wonder, To find you “hail fellows, well met,” in your hail, In one tune with your rain, and your wind and your thunder, “’Fore God,” they would cry, “they are both in a tale!” |
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