Sapartons Alarum, to all such as do beare The name of true Souldiers, in England, or els wheare.

AL Mars his men drawe neere,
that warlike feates embrace,
Sit downe a while, & harken heere,
a seruinge Souldiers case.
Laye downe the shiuered Speare,
and eke the battered shielde,
From Trumpets sound withdraw thine eare,
and harke in open field.
The true complaint of one,
whose gaine by seruice got
Will scarsely yelde a hungry Boone,
to cast into the Pot.
If euer warlike wighte,
Hath serued his time in vaine:
In hope to haue bin well requighte,
and hath receiued disdaine.
In faith then I am he,
such one that for my parte
Haue ready bin full willinglye,
with hand, and eeke with harte.
To serue my Prince in fielde,
whiles life had bearing breath,
As one that minded not to yelde,
nor forced life or death.
The fiery Cannons thump,
the cragged Scull that riues:
Whose force by inwarde charge is wonte,
to spoyle poore Souldiers liues.
Could neuer force me yet,
the enemies face to shonne:
If Captaines courage semed fit,
the conquest to haue wonne.
And for the time perchaunce,
I was accepted then,
And promised to haue aduaunce,
as soone as other men.
I speake as founde I haue,
what thoe I am contente:
For Saparton now waxeth graue,
Some youthfull yeares are spente,
Tis not the curled head,
nor yet the frisled heare:
That courage giues in time of neede,
to weld thunweldy Speare.
Some youthfull Imps I knowe,
that beares a passing grace:
If they to pitched fielde should goe,
durst scarsly shew their face.
But when that all is don,
Tis manhood makes the man:
Match not the Candell with the Sunne,
no praise deserue you than.
If courage craues a fame,
remaining in the breast:
Then manhood needes must make his claime
for to excell the reste.
Though Venus striue with Mars,
to get the vpper grounde:
At length yet shall the barded Horse,
exceede doth Hauke and Hounde.
And Lustie Laddes to you,
let not your courage quell:
Good hap hereafter may ensue,
though I good hap do sell.
¶Coaste on apace althoe,
Light Horseman trace the soyle:
Encounter sharpely with thy foe,
Make hauocke of the spoyle.
Esteeme not my yll hap,
Nor weye it ought at all,
The wight that scapes the Cannons clap,
Runnes yet to further thrall.
O Mars, bewaile thy man,
Because he hath suche wronge,
In dolefull tunes, O rustick Pan,
Now helpe to waile this songe.
So thus my leaue I take,
O Souldier now farewell:
No more to do now will I make,
but God preserue Queene EL.
Iohn Saparton.

Imprinted at Lon­don, in Fleetestreete, by William How, for Richard Iohnes, and are to be solde at his shoppe vnder the Lotterie house

[double-headed eagle]

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