Sapartons Alarum, to all such as do beare
The name of true Souldiers, in England, or elswheare.
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AL Mars his men drawe neere,
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that warlike feates embrace,
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Sit downe awhile, & harken heere,
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a servinge Souldiers case.
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Laye downe the shivered Speare,
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and eke the battered shielde,
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From Trumpets sound withdraw thine eare,
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and harke in open field.
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The true complaint of one,
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whose gaine by service got
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Will scarsely yelde a hungry Boone,
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to cast into the Pot.
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If ever warlike wighte,
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Hath served his time in vaine:
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In hope to have bin well requighte,
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and hath received disdaine.
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In faith then I am he,
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such one that for my parte
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Have ready bin full willinglye,
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with hand, and eeke with harte.
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To serve my Prince in fielde,
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whiles life had bearing breath,
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As one that minded not to yelde,
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nor forced life or death.
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The fiery Cannons thump,
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the cragged Scull that rives:
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Whose force by inwarde charge is wonte,
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to spoyle poore Souldiers lives.
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Could never force me yet,
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the enemies face to shonne:
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If Captaines courage semed fit,
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the conquest to have wonne.
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And for the time perchaunce,
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I was accepted then,
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And promised to have advaunce,
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as soone as other men.
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I speake as founde I have,
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what thoe I am contente:
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For Saparton now waxeth grave,
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Some youthfull yeares are spente,
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Tis not the curled head,
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nor yet the frisled heare:
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That courage gives in time of neede,
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to weld thunweldy Speare.
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Some youthfull Imps I knowe,
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that beares a passing grace:
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If they to pitched fielde should goe,
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durst scarsly shew their face.
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But when that all is don,
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Tis manhood makes the man:
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Match not the Candell with the Sunne,
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no praise deserve you than.
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If courage craves a fame,
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remaining in the breast:
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Then manhood needes must make his claime
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for to excell the reste.
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Though Venus strive with Mars,
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to get the upper grounde:
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At length yet shall the barded Horse,
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exceede both Hauke and Hounde.
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And Lustie Laddes to you,
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let not your courage quell:
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Good hap hereafter may ensue,
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though I good hap do sell.
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Coaste on apace althoe,
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Light Horseman trace the soyle:
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Encounter sharpely with thy foe,
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Make havocke of the spoyle.
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Esteeme not my yll hap,
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Nor weye it ought at all,
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The wight that scapes the Cannons clap,
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Runnes yet to further thrall.
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O Mars, bewaile thy man,
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Because he hath suche wronge,
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In dolefull tunes, O rustick Pan,
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Now helpe to waile this songe.
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So thus my leave I take,
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O Souldier now farewell:
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No more to do now will I make,
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but God preserve Queene EL.
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