Honour

OUR Reck'ning we've paid, here's to all bon repos,
The Decks we have clear'd, and 'tis time we should go;
A Coach did you say? No! I'm sober and strong,
Waiter! call me a Link-boy, he'll light me along.

Obsequious the dog with his dripping torch bows—
Your Honour! poor Jack, Sir, your Honour Jack knows.
For the sake of the pence thus he'll honour me on,
Gold Dust strews the Race-ground where all Honour's won.

Hold your light up!—what half-naked Objects here lye,
Thus huddled in heaps?—Good your Honour! they cry;
To poor creatures, your Honour, some charity spare;
Honour's phrase is Necessity's common-place prayer.

Young perishing Out-casts thus nightly are found,
No Parishes care, they're too poor to be own'd.
For he, in these times, wou'd be laughed to scorn,
Who Distress wou'd assist, yet expect no Return.

With Courtier-like bowing the Shoe-cleaners call,
And offer their Brush, Stool, and shining Black Ball;
Japanning your Honour, these Colourists plan,
And, really, some Honours may want a Japan.

To varnish the Taste is,—as cases from dust,
Each picture now glares with a transparent crust;
Nay, some Ladies Faces are colour'd like Blinds,
While men use japanning which masquerades minds.

Of Honour, of Freedom, yet England can boast,
And Honour and Freedom's an Englishman's Toast;
May Infamy ever Deserters attend,
But Honours crown those who our HONOURS defend.