The Tents with lights, the Fields with Boone-fires shine:
The common Souldiers Free-mens Catches sing:
With showtes and laughter all the Campe doth ring.
The wearied English watchfull o’r their Foes,
(The depth of night then drawing on so fast)
That fayne a little would themselues repose,
With thanks to God, doe take that small repast
Which that poore Village willingly bestowes:
And hauing plac’d their Sentinels at last,
They fall to Prayer, and in their Cabins blest,