To Each Gentleman Soldier in the Company of Captain Robert Gore

In Her Rich Coat the Cross and Dagger stand:
Thus LONDON's Honour is Her Martial Band:
Those Chiefs that dare Her true fair Cross maintain,
And make Her Faith, and Faiths Defender Reign.

The ORANGE then, that shining Field of Gold,
Whilst in your waving Ensigns we behold,
Still let your Grinning Foes repine, to view
A Martial Plume adorn a City Brow.
Who but the Sons of Art should shine in Arms?
That Noble Heat your Veins but justly warms.
Arms support Arts: Does not Minerva hold
From Mars her Shield and Safety? Steel guards Gold.
Nay War of Peace does the foundation lay:
And rugged Discord paves fair Concords way.

Permit your Humble Marshal then to bring
Once in a year his Dutious Offering.
But what poor Altars can my Homage raise?
How shall I chant my Honour'd Captains Praise?
His Noble Worth, 'tis true, my Songs may Tune,
My scattered Flowers beneath his feet are strown,
But the Rich Garden where they grow 's his own.

For WILLIAM then, the Champion of our Laws,
Joyn all true Hearts and Hands in His Great Cause,
Till France to that dread Name, proud Albion's Lord,
Shall own His Title, as She'as felt His Sword

In Her Rich Coat the Cross and Dagger stand:
Thus LONDON's Honour is Her Martial Band:
Those Chiefs that dare Her true fair Cross maintain,
And make Her Faith, and Faiths Defender Reign.

The YELLOW then, that shining Field of Gold,
Whilst in your waving Ensigns we behold,
Still let your Grinning Foes repine, to view
A Martial Plume adorn a City Brow.
Who but the Sons of Art should shine in Arms?
That Noble Heat your Veins but justly warms.
Arms support Arts: Does not Minerva hold
From Mars her Shield and Safety? Steel guards Gold.
Nay War of Peace does the foundation lay:
And rugged Discord paves fair Concords way.

Permit your Humble Marshal then to bring
Once in a year his Dutious Offering.
But what poor Altars can my Homage raise?
How shall I chant my Honour'd Captains Praise?
His Noble Worth, 'tis true, my Songs may Tune,
My scattered Flowers beneath his feet are strown,
But the Rich Garden where they grow 's his own.

For WILLIAM then, the Champion of our Laws,
Joyn all true Hearts and Hands in His Great Cause,
Till France to that dread Name, proud Albion's Lord,
Shall own His Title, as She'as felt His Sword.