MARDIKE: OR, The Soldiers Sonnet of his Sword.
Sung to the ORGAN.
I.
WHen first
Mardike was made a Prey,
'Twas Courage that carry'd the Town away,
Then do not loose your valoured Prize,
By gazing on your Mistrese eyes,
But put off your Petticoat-Parley,
Potting and sotting,
And laughing, and quaffing
Canary,
Shall make good Souldjers miscarry,
And never travel for true renown;
Then turn to your Martial Mistriss,
Fair
Minerva the Souldjers Sister is,
Rallying, and sallying,
And lashing, and slashing
Of wounds Sir,
With turning and burning of Towns Sir,
Is a high step to a Statesmans Throne,
II.
Let bold
Bellona's Brewer frown,
And his Tun shall overflow the Town;
Or give a Cobler Sword and Fate,
And a Tinker may trappan the State,
Such fortunate Foes as these be,
Turn'd the Crown to a Cross at
Naseby,
Father, and Mother,
And Sister, and Brother
Confounded,
And many good Families wounded
By a terrible Turn of Fate:
Such plentiful power the Sword had,
He that can kill a man,
Thunder, and plunder
Precisely,
This is the man that doth wisely,
And may climb to a Chair of State.
III.
It is the Sword doth order all,
Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;
All Syllogisms in vain are spilt,
No Logick like a Basket-hilt,
It handles 'em joynt by joynt, Sir,
Thrilling, and drilling,
And killing, and spilling
Profoundly,
Until the Disputers are roundly,
And have never a word to say,
Unless it be Quarter, Quarter:
Truth is confuted by a Carter,
Whipping, and stripping,
And ripping, and nipping
Evasions,
Doth conquer a power of Perswasions,
Aristotle hath lost the day.
IV.
The Gown and Chair cannot compare,
With the
Red-coat and the
Bandaleer,
The Musquer gives Saint
Paul the lurch,
And beats the Cannons from the Church,
The Priests Episcopal Gown too,
And the Organ hath lost his sound too,
Tan tara, tan tara,
Tan tara, tan tara
The Trumpet
Hath blown away
Babylons Strumpet,
And Cathedrals begin to crack:
Your Councellors are struck dumb too,
By the Parchment upon the Drum too,
Dub-a, dub-a, dub-a, dub-a,
Dub-a, dub-a, dub-a, dub-a,
An Allarum,
Each Corporal now can out-dare 'em,
Learned
Littleton goes to rack.
V.
Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,
Let's leave our Wenches and our Wine,
Wee'l follow
Mars where ere he runs,
And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns,
The Bottles shall be the Granadoes,
We will bounce about the Bravadoes,
Huffing, and puffing,
And snuffing, and cuffing
The Spaniard,
Whose Brows has been dy'd in a Tan-yard,
Well-got Fame is a Warriors wife:
The Drawer shall be the Drummer,
We will be Colonels all next Summer,
Hiltings, and tilting,
And pointing, and joynting,
Like brave Boys,
We shall have Gold or a Grave, boys,
Here is an end of a Souldjers life.
FINIS.
London, Printed for James Goodman. 1660.