Civitas Militaris.  
OR, A POEM ON THE City Royal Regiment OF HORSE.  
By JOHN TUTCHIN, Gent.  Non exercitus, neque Thesauri praesidia regni sunt, Verum amici. Sallust. in Bell. Jugurth. 
LONDON: Printed for Langly Curtis, at Sir Edmund-Bury-Godfry's-Head, near Fleet-Bridge. 1689. 30. Octob.   

Civitas Militaris. OR, A POEM ON THE City Royal Regiment OF HORSE.  

THE Roman Gallantry long since retired,  
Its City Valour in its Flames expired;  
But London's Fame Immortal Glory bears,  
Preserved from wasting Age, and Flames, and Wars;  
Yet though we can a new built City show,  
We had our nero's, and damned Praetors too,  
Who with the Tyrant Flement Conspired,  
And with resistless Rage our City Fired:  
But as the Deluge did o'erflow the Earth,  
Only to give a better World a Birth,  
So from devouring Flames, once caused our fear,  
New Houses, and bright Pyramids appear;  
And Warlike Youths, for mighty Deeds arise,  
Their City's Glory, and their Nation's Prize.   

Such, such are you, you Mighty Sons of Mars,  
The Happy Omens of succeeding Wars!  
In Bloody Fields, the surest Conquest falls,  
Where Heroes March, and Kings are Generals.  
No greater Patriot Mankind could Espouse;  
Great is your Leader, and as good your Cause:  
Tyrants have oft whole Provinces Subdued,  
And in their Subject's Blood their Hands Imbrued.  
Our King does Regal Clemency impart;  
A King that's after God's and's People's Heart.  
Methinks I see him Landing on the Strand,  
Lord of the Ocean first, and then of Land;  
Fame runs before him like the Morningstar,  
And tells his Skill, and Mighty Feats in War:  
The Mighty Nassaw shows his Goodness forth;  
The Mighty Nations all Applaud his Worth:  
The Nobler Citizens themselves present,  
To Guard his Person, and his Government.  
No Hireling Soldiers for their Country's good,  
But freely spend their Treasure as their Blood;  
Unlike the Gloomy Days we lately saw,  
When Sovereign Will devoured the People's Law;  
When Irish Teagues were by its Bounty fed,  
Hired to Cut Throats, and Murder for their Bread.  
Now a Serener Ray of Bliss appears,  
After a Series of sad rolling years:  
Our Prince shall be in Story much Renowned,  
And's City Combatants with Laurels Crowned,  
Whilst Youthful Blood and Vigour swell our Veins,  
And Chivalry's the Theme of Nobler Pens;  
Whilst in the Field the Martial Hero walks,  
Of Wars fierce God, and Blood and Slaughter talks;  
Whilst Warlike Steeds beat with their Hoofs the Ground,  
And Neigh and Prance, to the Shrill Trumpets sound;  
In every Clime, where Heat and Cold do waste,  
Our Mighty Warriors and their Fame shall last.  
Our little London, on the Irish Coast,  
Can Mighty Wonders, and Brave Actions boast?  
There Warlike Baker a firm Bulwark stood,  
'Gainst French and Irish, an Augean Brood.  
The Mighty Baker is in War Renowned,  
With deathless Wreaths, and lasting Laurels Crowned.  
The Mighty Baker is the Muse's Theme,  
My daily Subject, and my nightly Dream;  
Skilled in the Arts, that do to War belong,  
Soft were his Passions, as his Hand was strong:  
But cursed Fate! we paying Tribute, come  
To his Immortal Worth, and to his Tomb!  
Ah! Partial Destiny! Thou took'st the best;  
Thou Lop'st the Hero, and thou sav'st the Priest!  
Baker obtained an Everlasting Name,  
Walker was only Heir to his Fame.   

If little London such great Trophies gains,  
For greater London, what just praise remains?  
In this good Soil, how many Warriors grow?  
How many Glorious Bakers can we show?  
Though loss of Charters might deject the mind,  
Yet even when Slaves, we could true Courage find;  
And when a Papist had forsaken the Throne,  
We gave a Juster Monarch the lost Crown.  
With Generous Rage, and Manly Virtue Armed,  
With Kingly Goodness, and the Soldier Charmed,  
We sit securely underneath his Shade,  
And prop the Righteous King our Hand have made.  
Hail Happy Monarch! Leader in our Tears,  
And Partner of our Joys, and of our Fears!  
Led on, we'll follow to the utmost bound,  
Where Danger's seen, and Grizly Death is found;  
Through Winter's Frost, through driven Snow and Dirt,  
Where Marching's tedious, and the days but short:  
Where no Provision's found to cheer our Swords,  
But what the Hedges and the Brook affords.  
Let Tories Snarl, and view the envied Crown,  
You may dissolve their Malice in a frown;  
And if the Gangrene should too far o'erspread,  
Bring down the Royal Thunder on their Head.  
Our Trusty Swords are keen, prepared all  
To Guard your Life, or to Revenge your fall,  
On Rome's black Agents, the Egyptian Sots,  
Their Poisonous Draughts, and Brandy-Bottle Plots.  
He's Belzebubs own Child, who not content,  
Does hate his King, and curse his Government:  
In times large Chronicles, we cannot find  
Men hated Kings for being good and kind,  
But these disown the very Act they've done;  
And who misled the Father, would the Son.   

Unhappy James! Undone by Knaves and Beasts;  
He never thrived was Influenced by Priests:  
When thou with Foreign Troops so much waste scared,  
How well their boasted Loyalty appeared?  
Tho by thy breach of Statute-Law they thrived,  
And on the Ruin of their Country lived,  
In times of Danger, left thee to the Rage  
Of Injured Subjects, nothing could assuage;  
From Ease, from Pleasure, and from Empire torn,  
By all Deserted, and alone forlorn:  
Unpitied by his Friends, does grovelling lie,  
The poor Remains of Tyrant Monarchy.   

Thus have I known a well-fed Race of Mice,  
Within some Regal Dome keep Paradise,  
Feed on the daintiest Cates, the Wheat and Pease,  
Westphalia-Bacon, and fat Cheshire-Cheese,  
But when they find the House begin to fall,  
And spy the flaws, and view the tottering Wall,  
By Natural Instinct, cautioned of their stay,  
Forewarned in time, they wisely run away,  
Mourning the Bread and Cheese they now must lose,  
But more the Fate of the declining House.   

Our Prince a better Fate must sure attend,  
Whom willing Subjects at their charge Defend;  
Tyrants can't force a Regiment for the Wars,  
Our King Commands large Troops of Volunteers.  
Such once our former Monarches did attend,  
And from Invading Foes the Land Defend:  
Hail, Mighty Warriors! Heaven direct your Course,  
Each Man a Knight, a Pegasus each Horse;  
Sworn to Destroy the Holds of Hell and Rome,  
For better Ages, and brave Times to come;  
When Peace and Plenty shall surround our Shore,  
And Defunct Tyrants shall be seen no more:  
When Hells devouring Womb shall be quite filled,  
With the fat Sacrifice your Swords have killed:  
Then you returning from the Scenes of Wars,  
Adorned with Wounds, and Beautified with Scars,  
Shall by the numerous Crowd receive Applause,  
And tender Virgins bless you as you pass:  
The Ransomed Nations shall Exalt your Praise,  
Structures of Marble to your Fame shall raise.   
FINIS.