MARDIKE: OR, The soldier's Sonnet of his Sword.  
Sung to the ORGAN.  

I.  
WHen first Mardike was made a Prey,  
'Twas Courage that carried the Town away,  
Then do not lose your valoured Prize,  
By gazing on your Mistrese eyes,  
But put off your Petticoat-Parley,  
Potting and sotting,  
And laughing, and quaffing  
Canary,  
Shall make good Souldjers miscarry,  
And never travel for true renown;  
Then turn to your Martial Mistress,  
Fair Minerva the souldjers' Sister is,  
Rallying, and sallying,  
And lashing, and slashing  
Of wounds Sir,  
With turning and burning of Towns Sir,  
Is a high step to a statesman's Throne,   

II.  
Let bold Bellona's Brewer frown,  
And his Tun shall overflow the Town;  
Or give a cobbler Sword and Fate,  
And a Tinker may trappan the State,  
Such fortunate Foes as these be,  
Turned the Crown to a Cross at Naseby,  
Father, and Mother,  
And Sister, and Brother  
Confounded,  
And many good Families wounded  
By a terrible Turn of Fate:  
Such plentiful power the Sword had,  
He that can kill a man,  
Thunder, and plunder  
Precisely,  
This is the man that doth wisely,  
And may climb to a Chair of State.   

III.  
It is the Sword doth order all,  
Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;  
All Syllogisms in vain are spilled,  
No logic like a Basket-hilt,  
It handles 'em joint by joint, Sir,  
Thrilling, and drilling,  
And killing, and spilling  
Profoundly,  
Until the Disputers are roundly,  
And have never a word to say,  
Unless it be Quarter, Quarter:  
Truth is confuted by a Carter,  
Whipping, and stripping,  
And ripping, and nipping  
Evasions,  
Doth conquer a power of persuasions,  
Aristotle hath lost the day.   

IV.  
The Gown and Chair cannot compare,  
With the Red-coat and the Bandaleer,  
The Musquer gives Saint Paul the lurch,  
And beats the Cannons from the Church,  
The Priests Episcopal Gown too,  
And the Organ hath lost his sound too,  
Tan tara, tan tara,  
Tan tara, tan tara  
The Trumpet  
Hath blown away Babylon's Strumpet,  
And Cathedrals begin to crack:  
Your councillors are struck dumb too,  
By the Parchment upon the Drum too,  
Dub-a, dub-a, dub-a, dub-a,  
Dub-a, dub-a, dub-a, dub-a,  
An alarum,  
Each Corporal now can outdare 'em,  
Learned Littleton goes to rack.   

V.  
Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,  
Let's leave our Wenches and our Wine,  
we'll follow Mars where e'er he runs,  
And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns,  
The Bottles shall be the Granadoes,  
We will bounce about the Bravadoes,  
Huffing, and puffing,  
And snuffing, and cuffing  
The Spaniard,  
Whose Brows has been died in a Tan-yard,  
Well-got Fame is a warrior's wife:  
The Drawer shall be the Drummer,  
We will be Colonels all next Summer,  
Hiltings, and tilting,  
And pointing, and jointing,  
Like brave Boys,  
We shall have Gold or a Grave, boys,  
Here is an end of a souldjers' life.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for James Goodman. 1660.