Текст оригинала на английском языке
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.
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