THE ENGLISH IRISH SOVLDIER With his new Discipline, new Armes, Old Stomacke, and new taken pillage: who had rather Eate than Fight.

IF any Souldate
think I do appeare,
In this strange Armes
and posture, as a jeere,
Let him advance up to me
he shall see,
Ile stop his mouth,
and we wil both agree.
Our Skirmish ended,
our Enemies fled or slain
Pillage wee cry then,
for the Souldiers gaine,
And this compleat Artillery
I have got,
The best of Souldiers,
I think, hateth not.
My Martiall Armes
dealt I amongst my foes,
With▪ this I charged stand
'gainst hungers blowes;
This is Munition
if a Souldier lacke,
He fights like Iohn a dreams,
or Lents thin Jacke.
All safe and cleare,
my true Arms rest a while,
And welcome pillage,
you have foes to foile;
This Pot, my Helmet,
must not be forsaken,
For loe I seiz'd it
full of Hens and Bacon.
Rebels for Rebels drest it,
but our hot rost,
Made them to flye,
and now they kisse the post
And better that to kisse,
then stay for Pullits,
And have their bellies
cram'd with leaden bullets.
This fowle my Feather is,
who wins most fame,
To weare a pretty Duck,
he need not shame:
This Spit my well charg'd
Musket, with a Goose,
Now cryes come eate me,
let your stomacks loose.
[figure]
This Dripping pan's my
target, and this Hartichoke
My Basket-hilted blade,
can make 'em smoake,
And make them slash & cut,
who most Home puts,
Ile most my fury
sheath into his guts.
This Forke my Rest is,
and my Bandaleers
Canary Bottles,
that can quell base feares,
And make us quaffe downe
danger, if this not doe,
What is it then? can raise
a spirit into fearfull men.
This Match are linkes
to light down to my belly
Wherin are darksom chinks
as I may tell yee,
Or Sassages, or Puddings,
choose you which,
An excellent Needle,
Hungers wounds to stitch.
These my Supporters,
garter'd with black pots,
Can steele the nose,
& purg the brain of plots;
These tosts my shooestrings,
steept in this strong fog,
Is abl [...] of themselves
to foxe a Dog.
These Armes being vanisht,
once againe appeare
A true and faithful Souldier
As you were;
But if this wants,
and that we have no biting
In our best Armours
we make sorry fighting.
FINIS.

Printed at London for R. Wood, and A. Coe. 1642.

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