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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