ANSWER TO 'UPON SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S HUNDRED HORSE' by JOHN SUCKLING

I TELL thee, fellow, whoe'er thou be,
That made this fine sing-song of me,
Thou art a rhyming sot;
These very lines do thee bewray,
This barren wit makes all men say,
'Twas some rebellious Scot.

But it's no wonder that you sing
Such songs of me, who am no king,
When every Blue Cap swears
He'll not obey King James his barne,
That hugs a bishop under his arm,
And hangs them in his ears.

Had I been of your covenant,
You would have call'd me John of Gaunt,
And given me great renown;
But now I am John for the King,
You say I am but a poor Suckling,
And thus you cry me down.

Well, it's no matter what you say
Of me or mine, that run away:
I hold it no good fashion
A loyal subject's blood to spill,
When we have knaves enough to kill
By force of proclamation.

Commend me unto Leslie stout,
And all his pedlars him about:
Tell them without remorse
That I will plunder all their packs,
And ride myself upon their backs,
With these my hundred horse.

This holy war, this zealous firk
Against the bishops and the kirk,
Is a pretended bravery:
Religion, all the world can tell,
Amongst Highlanders ne'er did dwell---
It's but to cloak your knavery.

Such desperate gamesters as you be
I cannot blame for tutoring me,
Since all you have is down;
And every boor forgets the plough,
And swears that he'll turn gamester now,
To venture for a crown.

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