The eighth song, upon the first expedition into the North under the late King

Will you hear a song
Shall do no body no wrong,
And yet was writ at randum
By a friend of mine
Ore a glass of wine,
So great it would make a man dumb.

He wanted no matter,
To have made it a Satyre,
And abus'd all towns-men, and Nobles:
But he thought it unfit
o to wrong his wit,
To bring himself into troubles.

To all his friends
He sends his commends,
And praies them when they are drinking
To forbear to prate
Of matters of State,
And leave them to th' Councels thinking:

Nor to take it in snuff
If a man in buff
Doth come into their chamber;
As if they thought
All Souldiers were naught,
And a contempt was in armour.

Nor when they are drunk
To think of a punk,
For fear of the flux, or sweating;
But away to creep,
And (at home) go sleep,
And leave it a friendly meeting.

He would have them next
Not to be perplext
If their mistress be cruel;
Nor to fight with them
Whom they do esteem;
Lest they be jeer'd for the Duel.

If a man love one,
And her heart be gon,
And plac'd upon another;
Let him do the same
In little Cupids name,
And that will please Loves mother.

Let him that is forth
Going to the north,
Have his health drunk every sitting;
And all good success
Wish'd unto the English,
And all things else befitting.

Let the souldiers obey
What the captains say,
Lest they disgrace their profession;
And save their blows
From their friends for their foes,
And all their angers expression.

Let us fight for our King,
And fame will sing
Of us an endless story;
The Chronicles will tell
That we did well,
And liv'd and dy'd in glory.