THE ENGLISH IRISH soldier With his new Discipline, new arms, Old stomach, and new taken pillage: who had rather eat than Fight.  

IF any Souldate  
think I do appear,  
In this strange arms  
and posture, as a jeer,  
Let him advance up to me  
he shall see,  
I'll stop his mouth,  
and we will both agree.   

Our Skirmish ended,  
our Enemies fled or slain  
Pillage we cry then,  
for the soldier's gain,  
And this complete Artillery  
I have got,  
The best of soldiers,  
I think, hateth not.   

My martial arms  
dealt I amongst my foes,  
With▪ this I charged stand  
'gainst hungers blows;  
This is Munition  
if a soldier lack,  
He fights like John a dreams,  
or Lents thin Jack.   

All safe and clear,  
my true Arms rest a while,  
And welcome pillage,  
you have foes to foil;  
This Pot, my Helmet,  
must not be forsaken,  
For lo I seized it  
full of Hens and Bacon.   

Rebels for Rebels dressed it,  
but our hot roast,  
Made them to fly,  
and now they kiss the post  
And better that to kiss,  
then stay for Pullits,  
And have their bellies  
Crammed with leaden bullets.   

This fowl my Feather is,  
who wins most fame,  
To wear a pretty Duck,  
he need not shame:  
This Spit my well charged  
Musket, with a Goose,  
Now cries come eat me,  
let your stomachs lose.   
 

This Dripping pan's my  
target, and this artichoke  
My Basket-hilted blade,  
can make 'em smoke,  
And make them slash & cut,  
who most Home puts,  
I'll most my fury  
sheath into his guts.   

This fork my Rest is,  
and my Bandaleers  
Canary Bottles,  
that can quell base fears,  
And make us quaff down  
danger, if this not do,  
What is it then? can raise  
a spirit into fearful men.   

This Match are links  
to light down to my belly  
Wherein are darksome chinks  
as I may tell ye,  
Or Sassages, or Puddings,  
choose you which,  
An excellent Needle,  
Hunger's wounds to stitch.   

These my Supporters,  
Gartered with black pots,  
Can steel the nose,  
& purge the brain of plots;  
These toasts my shooestrings,  
Steeped in this strong fog,  
Is abl● of themselves  
to fox a Dog.   

These arms being vanished,  
once again appear  
A true and faithful soldier  
As you were;  
But if this wants,  
and that we have no biting  
In our best Armours  
we make sorry fighting.   
FINIS.   

Printed at London for R. Wood, and A. Coe. 1642.