On the Warres in Ireland

Sir John Harrington (1561–1612)

From “Epigrams,” Book IV. Epigram 6

I PRAISED the speech, but cannot now abide it,

That warre is sweet to those that have not try’d it;

For I have proved it now and plainly see ’t,

It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.

At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;

Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome.

There without baked, rost, boyl’d, it is no cheere;

Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.

There we complain of one wan roasted chick;

Here meat worse cookt ne’re makes us sick.

At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down,

We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down;

Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,

A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.

There if a child but cry, O what a spite!

Here we can brook three larums in one night.

There homely rooms must be perfumed with Roses;

Here match and powder ne’re offend our noses.

There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets;

Here we stand fast against a shower of bullets.

Lo, then how greatly their opinions erre,

That think there is no great delight in warre;

But yet for this, sweet warre, Ile be thy debtor,

I shall forever love my home the better.