Sapartons Alarm, to all such as do bear The name of true Soldiers, in England, or else where.  

ALL Mars his men draw near,  
that warlike feats embrace,  
Sat down a while, & hearken here,  
a serving Soldiers case.   

Say down the shivered Spear,  
and eke the battered shield,  
From Trumpets sound withdraw thine ear,  
and hark in open field.   

The true complaint of one,  
whose gain by service got  
Will scarcely yield a hungry Boon,  
to cast into the Pot.   

If ever warlike wight,  
Hath served his time in vain:  
In hope to have been well requite,  
and hath received disdain.   

In faith then I am he,  
such one that for my part  
Have ready been full willingly,  
with hand, and eke with heart.   

To serve my Prince in field,  
whiles life had bearing breath,  
As one that minded not to yield,  
nor forced life or death.   

The fiery Cannons thump,  
the cragged skull that rives:  
Whose force by inward charge is wont,  
to spoil poor Soldiers lives.   

Can never force me yet,  
the enemy's face to shun:  
If captains courage seemed fit,  
the conquest to have won.   

And for the time perchance,  
I was accepted then,  
And promised to have advance,  
as soon as other men.   

I speak as found I have,  
what though I am content:  
For Saparton now waxeth grave,  
Some youthful years are spent,   

'tis not the curled head,  
nor yet the frizzled hear:  
That courage gives in time of need,  
to wield thunwieldy Spear.   

Some youthful Imps I know,  
that bears a passing grace:  
If they to pitched field should go,  
durst scarcely show their face.   

But when that all is done,  
'tis manhood makes the man:  
Match not the Candle with the Sun,  
no praise deserve you than.   

If courage craves a fame,  
remaining in the breast:  
Then manhood needs must make his claim  
for to excel the rest.   

Though Venus strive with Mars,  
to get the upper ground:  
At length yet shall the barded Horse,  
exceed doth Hawk and Hound.   

And Lusty Lads to you,  
let not your courage quell:  
Good hap hereafter may ensue,  
though I good hap do sell.   

¶ Coast on apace althoe,  
Light Horseman trace the soil:  
Encounter sharply with thy foe,  
Make havoc of the spoil.   

Esteem not my ill hap,  
Nor weigh it aught at all,  
The wight that escapes the Cannons clap,  
Runs yet to further thrall.   

O Mars, bewail thy man,  
Because he hath such wrong,  
In doleful tunes, O rustic Pan,  
Now help to wail this song.   

So thus my leave I take,  
O Soldier now farewell:  
No more to do now will I make,  
but God preserve Queen EL.   
FINIS.  
john Saparton.   

Imprinted at London, in Fleetstreet, by William How, for Richard johnes, and are to be sold at his shop under the Lottery house  

 double-headed eagle