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