The English Irish souldier with his new discipline, new armes, old stomacke, and new taken pillage: who had rather eate than fight. 1642 Approx. 4 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A84017 Wing E3093 Thomason 669.f.6[12] ESTC R211832 99870524 99870524 160873

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A84017) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 160873) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 245:669f6[12]) The English Irish souldier with his new discipline, new armes, old stomacke, and new taken pillage: who had rather eate than fight. 1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. for R. Wood, and A. Coe, Printed at London : 1642. Verse - "If any souldate think I do appeare,". In two colums with a woodcut of the English Irish Souldier set between them. Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Political satire, English -- 17th century -- Early works to 1800. Ireland -- History -- 1625-1649 -- Humor -- Early works to 1800. Great Britain -- History, Military -- 17th century -- Humor -- Early works to 1800. 2007-09 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-10 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-12 Sampled and proofread 2007-12 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
THE ENGLISH IRISH SOVLDIER With his new Diſcipline, new Armes, Old Stomacke, and new taken pillage: who had rather Eate than Fight. IF any Souldate think I do appeare, In this ſtrange Armes and poſture, as a jeere, Let him advance up to me he ſhall ſee, Ile ſtop his mouth, and we wil both agree. Our Skirmiſh ended, our Enemies fled or ſlain Pillage wee cry then, for the Souldiers gaine, And this compleat Artillery I have got, The beſt of Souldiers, I think, hateth not. My Martiall Armes dealt I amongſt my foes, With▪ this I charged ſtand 'gainſt hungers blowes; This is Munition if a Souldier lacke, He fights like Iohn a dreams, or Lents thin Jacke. All ſafe and cleare, my true Arms reſt a while, And welcome pillage, you have foes to foile; This Pot, my Helmet, muſt not be forſaken, For loe I ſeiz'd it full of Hens and Bacon. Rebels for Rebels dreſt it, but our hot roſt, Made them to flye, and now they kiſſe the poſt And better that to kiſſe, then ſtay for Pullits, And have their bellies cram'd with leaden bullets. This fowle my Feather is, who wins moſt fame, To weare a pretty Duck, he need not ſhame: This Spit my well charg'd Musket, with a Gooſe, Now cryes come eate me, let your ſtomacks looſe.

This Dripping pan's my target, and this Hartichoke My Basket-hilted blade, can make 'em ſmoake, And make them ſlaſh & cut, who moſt Home puts, Ile moſt my fury ſheath into his guts. This Forke my Reſt is, and my Bandaleers Canary Bottles, that can quell baſe feares, And make us quaffe downe danger, if this not doe, What is it then? can raiſe a ſpirit into fearfull men. This Match are linkes to light down to my belly Wherin are darkſom chinks as I may tell yee, Or Saſſages, or Puddings, chooſe you which, An excellent Needle, Hungers wounds to ſtitch. Theſe my Supporters, garter'd with black pots, Can ſteele the noſe, & purg the brain of plots; Theſe toſts my ſhooeſtrings, ſteept in this ſtrong fog, Is abl • of themſelves to foxe a Dog. Theſe Armes being vaniſht, once againe appeare A true and faithful Souldier As you were; But if this wants, and that we have no biting In our beſt Armours we make ſorry fighting. FINIS.

Printed at London for R. Wood, and A. Coe. 1642.