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,