The following was published in 1692. It is about a soldier who is bidding for due respect and fair compensation for all he has given in war. My friends, if we allow the Obama Crime Syndicate to disrespect our soldiers as they propose, we are gone mad.

Written in Old English, it is not an easy read, but please bear with me, and dedicate as much as you can of it, to your heart. It will be an important foundation to my next post in this series. …Thank you, and God Bless America, God Bless our Troops.

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THE LOW COUNTRY SOLDIER:
OR,
His humble Petition at his Return into England,
after his bold Adventures in bloudy Battels.

To an excellent new Ture.                                             Licensed according to Order.

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Good your Worship cast an eye Upon a Souldier’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: For to make known my wofull 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 the shot. Olympick Games I oft have seen, And in brave Battels 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 Granadoe, 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 tumbl’d down again, And lay awhile among the slain; Yet rather than be beat, I got upon my Feet, And made the Enemy retreat; My self and seven more We fought Elevenscore; The Rogues was ne’er so thrash’d 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 past, 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 carry’d me home to Bed.

At push of Pike I lost this Eye, And at Birgam Siege I broke this Thigh, At Oftend, 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 Soldier of the Queen; But if Sir Francis Vere Were living now and here, He would tell you how I slash’d them 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 floud Of very noble Bloud, 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 finall Summe.

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 bloudy Wars, Thus slash’d, carbonado’d, & cut out in scars? Have I danc’d o’er the Ice, march’d thro’ the Dirt, Without either Hat, Hose, Shoe, or Shirt?

And must I now beg, bow, troop, trudge and trot, To every Pagan, and poor Peasant Sot? No, by this Hand and Sword not I, That Man’s not fit to live who fears to dye: 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, Lead him a turn or two, and put him into th’Stable As for you Mrs. Minks, don’t at me Jeer, To night for Supper let me have good Chear; My Pheasants, 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 Snap- sack, and so we are prepar’d for the next Rendezvous.

FINIS.

Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Back.

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[ PART 1 ] [ PART 2 ] [ PART 3 ] [ PART 4 ]