The Soldiers Fortune: OR The Taking of MARDIKE.
VVHen first
Mardike was made a Prey,
'Twas Courage that carry'd the Fort away;
Then do not lose your Valors Prize,
By gazing on your Mistress Eyes;
But put off your Petticoat-Parley;
Dotting and sotting, & laughing and quaffing Canary,
Will make a good Soldier miscarry,
And never Travel for true Renown:
Then turn to your Martial Mistriss,
Fair
Minerva the Soldiers Sister is;
Rallying & sallying, with gashing & slashing of Wounds, Sir,
With turning and burning of Towns, Sir,
Is a high step to a great Mans Throne.
Let bold
Bellona's Brewer frown,
And his Tun shall overflow the Town;
And give the 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 & Brother confounded,
And many a good Family wounded
By a terrible turn of Fate.
He that can kill a Man, thunder and plunder the town, sir,
And pull his Enemies down, Sir,
In time may be an Officer great,
It is the Sword do's 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;
Quilling & drilling, and spilling and killing profoundly,
Vntill the Disputers on Ground lye,
And have never a word to say:
Vnless it be quarter, quarter, truth is confuted by a Carter,
By stripping & nipping, & ripping and quipping Evasions,
Doth Conquer a power of Perswasions,
Aristotle hath lost the Day.
The Musket hears so great a Force,
To Learning it has no remorse;
The Priest, the Lay-man, and the Lord,
Find no distinction from the Sword;
Tan-tarra, Tan-tarra, the Trumpet,
Has blown away
Babylon's Strumpet:
Now the Walls begin to crack,
The Counsellors are struck dumb too,
By the Parchment upon the Drum too;
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, an Alarum,
Each Corporal now can outdare'um,
Learned
Littleton goes to rack.
Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,
We'll leave our Wenches and our Wine,
And follow
Mars where ere he runs,
And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns:
The Bottles shall be Granadoes,
We'll bounce about the Bravadoes,
By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the
French Boys,
Whose Brows has been dy'd in a Trench Boys;
Well got Fame is a Warrier's Wife,
The Drawer shall be the Drummer;
We'll be Collonels all next Summer;
By hilting and tilting, and pointing and joynting like brave Boys,
We shall have Gold, or a Grave Boys,
And there's an end of a Soldiers Life.
FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball in Pye-Corner.