News from the Camp, ON BLACK HEATH:  
OR, The Noble Soldier's Resolution: EXPRESSING His Heroic Courage to serve his King, and Country, to his utmost Ability, Through all Dangers and Exigences.  

COme all you brave Gallants! away to the Field,  
Where Honour her Crowns and her Laurels doth yield:  
Leave Drinking, and Fooling, and dandling of Wenches,  
To take up your Lodging in Tents, and in Trenches:  
Our Country's Foes we will strike with a Damp,  
And outshine the Reports of Tilbury-Campe.   

Should Caesar's bold Army Revive once again,  
Rome's Eagles must stoop to the Cross of Britain;  
Nor should that proud Bully, the Grand Alexander,  
Henceforth style himself Universal Commander,  
Nor Cry for more Worlds, for, lo! here he might find,  
Another more stout, yet Unconquered behind.   

Great Britain, That World by itself, which gives Law  
To its Neighbours, and keeps Usurpers in Awe,  
Which letters the Ocean in Chains, as of old,  
King Zerxes Attempted in vain, we are told,  
But now 'tis her Captive, where each Man of War,  
Rules as he lists, and all others can Barr.   

Yet the Bounds to Increase of her spreading Command,  
She endeavours to grow no less potent by Land,  
For Forces, all places do Club, and the Shires:  
Vie which shall send fastest their brave Volunteirs,  
For he is a Coxcomb, a Coward, or worse  
That Comes not his Country to serve, but on force.   

From Yorkshire, I'll lately Marched up to the Town,  
And the Devil Split my Crag if again I'll gang down,  
Without doing something shall make it appear,  
A Northern Lad scorns to be Hectored by fear,  
Our Arms th●y are good, our bodies are strong  
Let Old-men Advice, we will Fight that are Young.   

Then basten away to the noble Campaign,  
And when the Drum Beats, Let us over the Main,  
The Winds shall assist with a bountiful Gale.  
And waft our Fleet o'er with a full spreading Sail.  
Whilst the Skies being rend with our Cannons Loud Roar  
Waves Dance to that Music, And set us on Shore.   

No danger shall daunt us, no Toil, nor no Pain,  
We, are Sons of the Blade, and not born to complain,  
To our Foes we'll appear as furious and Rough  
As Seas, when Winds meet on their Brow with a Huff,  
But straight to our Friends no less gentle are mad●,  
Then Lovers kind Notes in a Sycamore shade.   

Where e'er our Prince pleases our Arms to employ,  
we'll follow our Leaders with Courage and Joy,  
By Land, or by Sea, whether Battle or Siege,  
we'll Accomplish all things that our duties oblige:  
This Generous Soul each true Soldier should have,  
If he cannot Triumph, he'● content with a Grave.   

Farewell to our Friends, it shall never be said,  
We dishonour the parts wherein we were bred,  
Farewell to our wives, poor hearts though we Roam.  
'tis like we're as honest as they are at Home:  
But a thousand Farewells to those Lasses so kind,  
For whose sakes I am vexed we must Leave them behind.   

Now let the Drums rattle, the Trumpets resound.  
And Brazen-mouthed Cannons, with breath tear the ground  
We scorn for all this, the Lest fears to betray.  
More danger, more Honour, the Proverb doth say,  
When Bullets about us Like Atoms do fly, ( 
The Base may Retreat, the Brave rather will die.   
FINIS.   

With Allowance.   

London, Printed for Thomas Vere, at the Angel without Newgate. 1673.