The Low-Country Soldier:
OR,
His Humble Petition at his Return into England, after his
Bold Adventures in bloody Battels.
To an excellent new Tune. Licensed according to Order.
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GOod your Worship cast an Eye
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Upon a Soldier's Misery;
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Let not these lean Cheeks, I pray,
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Your Worship's Bounty from me stay;
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But like a Noble Friend,
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Some Silver lend,
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And Jove shall pay you in the end,
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And I will pray that Fate,
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May make you Fortunate,
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In Heaven, or in some Earthly State.
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To Beg, I ne'er was bred, kind Sir,
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Which makes me blush to keep this stir;
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Nor do I rove from Place to Place,
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For to make known my woful Case:
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For I am none of those
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That a Roving goes,
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And in rambling show their drunken blows;
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For all that they have got,
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Is by banging of the Pot,
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In wrangling who should pay their shot.
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Olympick Games I oft have seen,
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And in brave Battels have I been;
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The Cannons there aloud did Roar,
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My proffer high was evermore:
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For, out of a Bravado,
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When in a Barricado,
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By tossing of a Hand-Granado,
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Death then then was very near,
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When it took away this Ear;
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But yet, thank God, I'm here, I'm here,
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And at the Siege of Buda there,
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I was blown up into the Air,
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From whence I tumbled down again,
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And lay a while among the slain;
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Yet rather then be beat,
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I got upon my Feet,
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And made the Enemy retreat;
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Myself and seven more
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We fought Eleven score;
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The Rogues were ne'er so thrash'd before.
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I have, at last, a dozen times,
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Been blown up by these Roguish Mines,
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Twice through the Skull have I been shot,
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That my Brains do boil like any Pot:
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Such Dangers have I past,
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At first and at last,
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As would make your Worship sore aghast.
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And there I lay for dead
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Till the Enemy was fled,
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And then they carried me home to Bed.
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At push of Pike I lost this Eye,
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And at Birgam Siege I broke this Thigh,
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At Ostend, like a Warlike Lad,
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I laid about as I were mad;
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But little would you think,
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That e'er I had been
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Such a good old Soldier of the Queen.
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But if Sir Francis Vere
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Were living now and here,
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He would tell you how I slash'd 'em there.
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The Hollanders my Fury know
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For oft with them I've dealt a Blow:
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Then did I take a Warlike Dance,
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Quite through Spain and into France;
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And there I spent a Flood
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Of very Noble Blood,
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Yet all would do but little good;
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For now I home am come,
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With my Rags upon my Bum,
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And crave of your Worship one small Summ.
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And now my Case you understand,
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Pray lend to me your helping hand;
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A little thing would pleasure me,
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To keep in mind your Charity:
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It is not Bread and Cheese,
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Nor Barley Lees,
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Or any such like Scraps as these;
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But what I beg of you,
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Is a Shilling one or two,
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Kind Sir, your Purse-string pay undo.
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HAve I spent all my days in Bloody Wars,
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Thus slash'd, carbonado'd, & cut out in scars,
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Have I danc'd o'er the Ice, march'd thro' the Dirt
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Without either Hat, Hose, Shoe, or Shirt?
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And must I now beg, bow, troop, trudge and trot,
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To every Pagan, and poor Peasant Sot?
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No, by this Hand and Sword not I,
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That Man's not fit to Live that fears to Die:
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I'll Purse it then, the High-way is my Hope;
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His Heart's not big, that fears a little Rope,
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------ Stand, and Deliver, Sir ------
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Here Boy take my Horse, walk him if thou'rt able,
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Lead him a turn or two, & put him into th' Stable,
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As for you Mrs. Minks, don't at me Jeer,
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To Night for Supper let me have good Cheer;
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My Pheasant, my Fowls, and choice of other Birds,
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I[']ll not be fed with Apple-pye, Cheese, and Curds:
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As for your Swine's Flesh, I'll eat none,
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Unless it be a Roast Pig, and then I may pick a bone.
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The rest my Boy shall Transport into his Snap-
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sack, and so we are prepared for the next
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Rendezvous.
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