The Low-Country Soldier: OR, His Humble Petition at his Return into England, after his Bold Adventures in Bloody Battles.  
Licenced according to Order.  
To an excellent new Tune.  
 

GOod your Worship cast an Eye  
Upon a Soldier's Misery;  
Let not these lean Cheeks, I pray,  
Your Worship's Bounty from me stay;  
But like a Noble Friend,  
Some Silver lend,  
And Jove shall pay you in the end,  
And I will pray that Fate,  
May make you Fortunate,  
In Heaven, or in some Earthly State.   

To Beg, I ne'er was bred, kind Sir,  
Which makes me blush to keep this stir;  
Nor do I rove from Place to Place,  
●or to make known my woeful Case:  
For I am none of those  
That a Roving goes,  
And in rambling show their drunken blows;  
For all that they have got,  
Is by banging of the Pot,  
In wrangling who should pay their shot.   

Olympic Games I oft have seen,  
And in brave Battles have I been;  
The Cannons there aloud did Roar,  
My proffer high was evermore:  
For, out of a Bravado,  
When in a Barricado,  
By tossing of a Hand-Granado,  
Death then then was very near,  
When it took away this Ear;  
But yet, thank God, I'm here, I'm here,   

And at the Siege of Buda there,  
I was blown up into the Air,  
From whence I tumbled down again,  
And lay a while among the slain;  
Yet rather than be beat,  
I got upon my Feet,  
And made the Enemy retreat;  
Myself and seven more  
We fought Eleven score;  
The Rogues were ne'er so thrashed before.   

I have, at least, a dozen times,  
Been blown up by these Roguish Mines,  
Twice through the Skull have I been shot,  
That my Brains do boil like any Pot:  
Such Dangers have I passed,  
At first and at last,  
As would make your Worship sore aghast.  
And there I lay for dead  
Till the Enemy was fled,  
And then they carried me home to Bed.   

At push of Pike I lost this Eye,  
And at Birgam Siege I broke this Thigh;  
At Ostend, like a Warlike Lad,  
I laid about as I were mad;  
But little would you think,  
That e'er I had been  
Such a good Old Soldier of the Queen.  
But if Sir Francis Vere  
Were living now, and here,  
He would tell you how I slashed 'em there.   

The Hollanders my Fury know  
For oft with them I've dealt a Blow:  
Then did I take a Warlike Dance,  
Quite through Spain, and into France;  
And there I spent a Flood  
Of very Noble Blood,  
Yet all would do but little good;  
For now I home am come,  
With my Rags upon my Bum,  
And crave of your Worship one small Summ.   

And now my Case you understand,  
Pray lend to me your helping hand;  
A little thing would pleasure me,  
To keep in mind your Charity:  
It is not Bread and Cheese,  
Nor Barley Lees,  
Or any such like Scraps as these;  
But what I beg of you,  
Is a Shilling one or two,  
Kind Sir, your Purse-string pray undo.    

EPILOGUE.  
HAve I spent all my days in Bloody Wars,  
Thus slashed, carbonadoed, & cut out in scars,  
Have I danced o'er the Ice, marched through the Dirt  
Without either Hat, Hose, Shoe, or Shirt?  
And must I now beg, bow, troop, trudge and troth,  
To every Pagan, and poor Peasant Sot?  
No, by this Hand and Sword not I,  
That Man's not fit to Live that fears to Die:  
I'll Purse it then, the Highway is my Hope;  
His Heart's not big, that fears a little Rope,  
— Stand, and Deliver, Sir—  
Here Boy take my Horse, walk him if thou'rt able,  
Led him a turn or two, & put him into th' Stable,  
As for you Mrs. Minks, don't at me Jeer,  
To Night for Supper let me have good Cheer;  
My Pheasant, my Fowls, and choice of other Birds,  
I'll not be fed with Apple-pye, Cheese, and Curds:  
As for your Swine's Flesh, I'll eat none,  
Unless it be a Roast Pig, and then I may pick a bone.  
The rest my Boy shall Transport into his Snapsack, and so we are prepared for the next Rendezvous.  
FINIS.   

Printed for C. Bates at the Sun and Bible in Pie-corner.