An Elegy on poor Robert Moore, the great Disputant

Sagacious MOORE alass is gone to know, The Truth of what he Fought for here below; With warm Zeal both Night and Day he strove, His Foes to baffle and his Cause to prove: With endless Feuds his harmless Mind they Vext, And plagu'd his Patience with some Vulgar Text; But he Impregnant still their Quirks did Cuff, And shew'd their Arguments were all but Stuff: For twice a Week he enter'd in the Cause, And never left the Field but with Applause; By Dint of Reason, and by Scripture Force, The only Arms to which he had Recourse. He drove those haughty Sticklers from the Field, And made their Champions to his Prowess yield; No borrow'd Weapons did our HERO bring, Resembling DAVID, with his Stones and Sling: He came with Joy to meet th' unequal Foe, Their great Goliah felt his parting Blow; In him fair Truth, with native Lustre shone, And sacred Scripture seem'd to be his own; Religion' Bulwark in his Rank he stood, And never fail'd to make his Purpose good; When three to one he often did Dispute, He could their ablest Causuists consute; But who shall now those Enemies engage, Since MOORE too soon has left the hostile Stage; Where he by list'ning Crowds, with Joy was seen, To gain Applause in that important Scene: With brave Success he still perform'd his Part, Defended Truth without the Help of Art; He to the Church has signal Service done, Who knew no Language, but his Mother Tongue; By that alone her Principles maintain'd, And adverse Quirks and Sophisms disdain'd; The HOLY BIBLE for his Rule he took, And drew his Reas'nings from that sacred BOOK: From thence with pious Hints he stor'd his Head, And Demonstration follow'd all he said. But Death came creeping in a slow Decay, And Inch by Inch, he stole our Friend away; As if by tedious Arguments he'd have, Our worthy Stickler to his lonely Grave; Death came round him, with a tardy Scope, As half unwilling to destroy our Hope; But gone he is, be it with Sorrow said. Rejoice some Folks, for your great FOE is dead. O! Shorthill now you may, with Gorman cry, Come on, come on, we all your Force defie, To combat now we'll meet you without fail, We'll bogg your Arguments, and drink your Ale: And Sheridan too, ten to one, will hold, The Fox being gone that Gander is grown bold; With nois'y Brags they loudly now will Vaunt, And boasting cry we'll all your courage Daunt; We doubt not, but each Victory to gain, Your Strength and Pride has left the hostile Plain. So when Achilles from the War withdrew, Each stripling Trojan dare the Fight renew; Those poor Poultroons, that durst not see his Face, Will now triumph since Death has chang'd the Case. O! Engine-Alley Paint your blue Posts black, Melt down your Pottles and your Pitchers crack; Let all your Taps in mourning, Murmurs run, And flowing Possets purl their Liquid moan: Your Friend indeed, who once could bring you Trade, A tedious Exit from your Doors has made; A Friend he was and to your Interest kind, A better Cause, has few such Friends behind.