Verse > Anthologies > The World’s Best Poetry > Vol. VIII. National Spirit
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Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VIII. National Spirit.  1904.
 
III. War
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;        5
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.        10
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!        15
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.        20
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.
 
 
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