For want of petticoat, I've put on buff,
To try what may be got by lying rough:
How think you, sirs? is it not well enough?
Of bully-critics I a troop would lead;
But, one replied,--Thank you, there's no such need,
I at Groom-Porter's, sir, can safer bleed.
Another, who the name of danger loaths,
Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
But that his horses were in body-clothes.
A third cried,--Damn my blood, I'll be content
To push my fortune, if the parliament
Would but recal claret from banishment.
A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse--
I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse;
Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes.
Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge,
But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge;
They there would fight, e'en just as here they judge.
Here they will pay for leave to find a fault;
But, when their honour calls, they can't be bought;
Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought.
Lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling
Who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling,
Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling.
On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage,
In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage;
What would you do in such an equipage[3]?
The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
Not out of errant shame of being beaten,
As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.
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