Volume 5 — The Soldiers Fortune: Or, the taking Mardyke.
Reading edition
[Listen]
WHen first Mardyke was made a Prey, ’Twas Courage that carry’d the Fort away, Then do not lose your Valours Prize, By gazing on your Mistresses Eyes; But put off your Petticoat-parley, Potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing Canary, Will make a good Soldier miscarry: And never Travel for true Renown: Then turn to your Marshal Mistress, Fair Minerva the Soldier’s Sister is; Rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of Wounds Sir, With turning and burning of Towns, Sir, Is a high step to a great Man’s Throne. Let bold Bellona’s Brewer frown, And his Tunn shall overflow the Town; And give the Cobler Sword and Fate: And a Tinker may trapan the State; Such Fortunate Foes as these be, Turn’d the Crown to a Cross at Naseby: Father and Mother, Sister and 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 does order all, Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall; All Sylogisms in vain are spilt, No Logick like a Basket-hilt: It handles ’em joint by joint Sir, Quilling and drilling, and spilling, and Killing profoundly, Until the Disputers on Ground lie, And have never a word to say; Unless it be Quarter, Quarter, Truth is confuted by a Carter, By stripping and nipping, and ripping and quipping Evasions, Doth Conquer a Power of Perswasions, Aristotle hath lost the Day. The Musket bears so great a force, To Learning it has no Remorse; The Priest, the Layman, the Lord, Find no distinction from the Sword; Tan tarra, Tan tarra the Trumpet, Now the Walls begin to crack, The Councellors 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 out-dare ’em, 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-e’er he runs, And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns. The Bottles shall be Grenadoes, We’ll bounce about the Bravado’s By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the French Boys, Whose Brows have been dy’d in a Trench Boys; Well got Fame is a Warriour’s Wife, The Drawer shall be the Drummer, We’ll be Colonels all next Summer By hiking and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave Boys, We shall have Gold or a Grave, Boys, And there’s an end of a Soldier’s Life.
