Classic Poem

When first Mardike was made a prey,
 'Twas courage that carried the Fort away;
 Then do not lose your Valor's Prize,
 By gazing on your Mistress' eyes;
 But put off your Petticoat-Parley:
 Potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing Canary,
Will make a good soldier miscarry,
  And never travel for true Renown.
 Then turn to your martial Mistriss,
 Fair Minerva , the Soldier's sister is;
Rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of wounds, sir,
 With turning and burning of Towns, sir,
  Is a high step to a great Man's Throne.

 Let bold Bellona's Brewer frown,
 And his Tun shall overflow the Town;
 And give the Cobler Sword and Fate,
 And a Tinker may trappan the State:
  Such fortunate Foes as there be,
  Turn'd the Crown to a Cross at Naseby ;
 Father and Mother, and sister and brother confounded,
  And many a good Family wounded,
   By a terrible turn of Fate.
 He that can kill a man, thunder and plunder the town, sir,
  And pull his enemies down, sir,
   In time may be an officer great.
 It is the Sword do's order all,
 Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;
 All syllogisms in vain are spilt,
 No Logick like a Basket-Hilt;
 It handles 'em joynt by joynt, sir;
Quilling and drilling, and spilling and killing profoundly,
 Untill the Disputers on th' ground lye,
  And have never a word to say:
Unless it be ‘quarter, quarter,’ truth is confuted by a carter,
 By stripping and nipping, and ripping; quipping Erasions,
  Doth conquer a power of perswasions:
   Aristotle hath lost the Day.

 The Musket bears so great a Force,
 To Learning it has no remorse;
 The Priest, the Layman, and the Lord,
 Find no distinction from the Sword;
  Tan-tarra, tan-tarra the Trumpet,
 Has blown away Babylon's strumpet.
  Now the Walls begin to crack
 The Counsellors are struck dumb, too,
 By the parchment upon the Drum, too;
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, an Alarum,
 Each Corporal now can out-dare 'um,
  Learned Littleton goes to wrack.
 Then since the sword so bright doth shine,
  We'll leave our wenches and our wine,
 And follow Mars where e'er he runs,
 And turn our pots and pipes to guns:
 The Bottles shall be Granadoes,
 We'll bounce about the Bravadoes;
By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the [Spaniard],
 Whose brows had been dy'd in a [Tan-yard],
 Well-got Fame is a Warrior's Wife,
 The Drawer shall be the Drummer,
 We'll be Collonels all next summer;
By hilting and tilting, and pointing and joynting, like brave Boys,
 We shall have Gold, or a Grave, Boys,
  And there's an end of a Soldier's Life.