Classic Poem

I praise the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That war is sweet to those that have not tried it:
For I have proved it now, and plainly see 't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canary wines and Greek grow loathsome;
Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome.
There without baked, roast, boiled, it is no cheer;
Biscuit we like, and bonny clabo here.
There we complain of one rare-roasted chick;
Here viler meat, worse cooked, ne'er makes me sick.
At home in silken sparvers, beds of down,
We scant can rest, but still toss up and down;
Here I can sleep, a saddle to my pillow,
A hedge the curtain, canopy a willow.
There if a child but cry, Oh 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'er offends 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 err
That think there is no great delight in war.
But yet for this, sweet war, I'll be thy debtor:
I shall for ever love my home the better.