To each Gentleman Soldier in the Company of Captain Robert Gore, Captain in the Orange Regiment of Trained Bands of LONDON.

IN Her Rich Coat the Cross and Dagger stand:
Thus LONDON's Honour is Her Martial Band:
Those Chiefs that dare Her true fair Cross maintain,
And make Her Faith, and Faiths Defender Reign.
The ORANGE then, that shining Field of Gold,
Whilst in your waving Ensigns we behold,
Still let your Grinning Foes repine, to view
A Martial Plume adorn a City Brow.
Who but the Sons of Art should shine in Arms?
That Noble Heat your Veins but justly warms.
Arms support Arts: Does not Minerva hold
From Mars her Shield and Safety? Steel guards Gold.
Nay War of Peace does the foundation lay:
And rugged Discord paves fair Concords way.
Permit your Humble Marshal then to bring
Once in a year his Dutious Offering.
But what poor Altars can my Homage raise?
How shall I chant my Honour'd Captains Praise?
His Noble Worth, 'tis true, my Songs may Tune,
My scattered Flowers beneath his feet are strown,
But the Rich Garden where they grow 's his own.
For WILLIAM then, the Champion of our Laws,
Joyn all true Hearts and Hands in His Great Cause,
Till France to that dread Name, proud Albion's Lord,
Shall own His Title, as She'as felt His Sword
Your Trusty Marshal, Nathaniel Candy.

[...] each Gentleman Soldier in the Company of Captain John Hulls, Captain in the Yellow Regiment of Trained Bands of LONDON.

IN Her Rich Coat the Cross and Dagger stand:
Thus LONDON's Honour is Her Martial Band:
Those Chiefs that dare Her true fair Cross maintain,
And make Her Faith, and Faiths Defender Reign.
The YELLOW then, that shining Field of Gold,
Whilst in your waving Ensigns we behold,
Still let your Grinning Foes repine, to view
A Martial Plume adorn a City Brow.
Who but the Sons of Art should shine in Arms?
That Noble Heat your Veins but justly warms.
Arms support Arts: Does not Minerva hold
From Mars her Shield and Safety? Steel guards Gold.
Nay War of Peace does the foundation lay:
And rugged Discord paves fair Concords way.
Permit your Humble Marshal then to bring
Once in a year his Dutious Offering.
But what poor Altars can my Homage raise?
How shall I chant my Honour'd Captains Praise?
His Noble Worth, 'tis true, my Songs may Tune,
My scattered Flowers beneath his feet are strown,
But the Rich Garden where they grow 's his own.
For WILLIAM then, the Champion of our Laws,
Joyn all true Hearts and Hands in His Great Cause,
Till France to that dread Name, proud Albion's Lord,
Shall own His Title, as She'as felt His Sword.
Your Trusty Marshal, Thomas Hawkins.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.