"THE MAUNDING SOULDIER, OR THE FRUITS OF WARRE IS BEGGERY" by ANONYMOUS

Good, your worship, cast your eyes
Upon a Souldier's miseries;
Let not my leane cheekes, I pray,
Your bounty from a Souldier 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 heavenly, and in Earth's, estate.
To beg I was not borne (sweet Sir)
And therefore blush to make this stirre;
I never went from place to place
For to divulge my wofull case:
for I am none of those
that roguing goes,
that, maunding, shewes their drunken blowes,
which they have onely got
while they have bang'd the pot
in wrangling who should pay the shot.
I scorne to make comparison
With those of Kent-street Garrison,
That in their lives nere crost the seas,
But still at home have lived at ease;
yet will they lye and sweare,
as though they were
men that had travel'd farre and neere;
true souldiers' company
doth teach them how to lye:
they can discourse most perfectly.
But I doe scorne such counterfaits
That get their meanes by base deceits:
They learne of others to speake Dutch;
Of Holland they'l tell you as much
as those that have bin there
full many a yeere,
and name the townes all farre and neere;
yet they never went
beyond Graves-end in Kent,
but in Kent-street their dayes are spent.
They in Olympicke games have beene,
Whereas brave battels I have seene;
And where the Cannon use to roare
My proper spheare was evermore:
the danger I have past,
both first and last,
would make your worship's selfe agast;
a thousand times I have
been ready for the grave;
three times I have been made a Slave.
Twice through the bulke I have been shot;
My braines have boyled like a pot:
I have at lest these doozen times
Been blowne up by those roguish mines
under a barracado,
in a bravado,
throwing of a hand-grenado:
Oh death was very neere,
for it tooke away me eare,
and yet (thanke God) cham here, cham here.
I have uppon the Seas been tane
By th' Dunkerks, for the King of Spaine,
And stript out of my garments quite,
Exchanging all for canvis white;
And in that poor aray
For many a day
I have been kept, till friends did pay
A ransome for release;
And having bought my peace,
My woes againe did fresh increase.
There's no land-service as you can name
But I have been actor in the same;
In th' Palatinate and Bohemia
I served many a wofull day;
At Frankendale I have,
Like a Souldier brave,
Receiv'd what welcomes canons gave;
For the honour of England
Most stoutly did I stand
'Gainst the Emperour's and Spinolae's Band.
At push of Pike I lost mine eye;
At Bergen Siege I broke my thigh;
At Ostend, though I were a lad,
I laid about me as I were mad.
Oh you would little ween
That I had been
An old, old souldier to the Queene;
But if Sir Francis Vere
Were living now and here,
Hee'd tell you how I slasht it there.
Since that, I have been in Breda
Besieg'd by Marquesse Spinola;
And since that made a warlike dance
Both into Spaine, and into France;
And there I lost a flood
Of Noble blood,
And did but very little good:
And now I home am come,
With ragges about my bumme,
God bless you, Sir, from this poore summe!
And now my case you understand,
Good Sir, will you lend your helping hand,
A little thing will pleasure me,
And keepe in use your charity:
It is not bread nor cheese,
Nor barrell lees,
Nor any scraps of meat, like these;
But I doe beg of you
A shilling or two,
Sweet Sir, your purse's strings undoe.
I pray your worhsip, thinke on me,
That am what I doe seeme to be,
No rooking rascall, nor no cheat,
But a Souldier every way compleat;
I have wounds to show
That prove 'tis so;
Then, courteous good Sir, ease my woe;
And I for you will pray
Both night and day
That your substance never may decay.

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