Poem by John Harington

On the Wares in Ireland

  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, He be thy debtor,
    I shall forever love my home the better.

1. Ingratitude
2. An Elegy of a Pointed Diamond Given by the Author to His Wife at the Birth of His Eldest Son
3. Slander
4. Beauty
5. Of Treason

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