| |
[1415]
FAIR stood the wind for France, | |
| When we our sails advance, | |
| Nor now to prove our chance | |
| Longer will tarry; | |
| But putting to the main, | 5 |
| At Kause, the mouth of Seine, | |
| With all his martial train, | |
| Landed King Harry, | |
| |
| And taking many a fort, | |
| Furnished in warlike sort, | 10 |
| Marchèd towards Agincourt | |
| In happy hour,— | |
| Skirmishing day by day | |
| With those that stopped his way, | |
| Where the French general lay | 15 |
| With all his power, | |
| |
| Which in his height of pride, | |
| King Henry to deride, | |
| His ransom to provide | |
| To the king sending; | 20 |
| Which he neglects the while, | |
| As from a nation vile, | |
| Yet, with an angry smile, | |
| Their fall portending. | |
| |
| And turning to his men, | 25 |
| Quoth our brave Henry then: | |
| Though they to one be ten, | |
| Be not amazèd; | |
| Yet have we well begun, | |
| Battles so bravely won | 30 |
| Have ever to the sun | |
| By fame been raisèd. | |
| |
| And for myself, quoth he, | |
| This my full rest shall be; | |
| England ne’er mourn for me, | 35 |
| Nor more esteem me, | |
| Victor I will remain, | |
| Or on this earth lie slain; | |
| Never shall she sustain | |
| Loss to redeem me. | 40 |
| |
| Poitiers and Cressy tell, | |
| When most their pride did swell, | |
| Under our swords they fell; | |
| No less our skill is | |
| Than when our grandsire great, | 45 |
| Claiming the regal seat, | |
| By many a warlike feat | |
| Lopped the French lilies. | |
| |
| The Duke of York so dread | |
| The eager vaward led; | 50 |
| With the main Henry sped, | |
| Amongst his henchmen, | |
| Excester had the rear,— | |
| A braver man not there: | |
| O Lord! how hot they were | 55 |
| On the false Frenchmen! | |
| |
| They now to fight are gone; | |
| Armor on armor shone; | |
| Drum now to drum did groan,— | |
| To hear was wonder; | 60 |
| That with the cries they make | |
| The very earth did shake; | |
| Trumpet to trumpet spake, | |
| Thunder to thunder. | |
| |
| Well it thine age became, | 65 |
| O noble Erpingham! | |
| Which did the signal aim | |
| To our hid forces; | |
| When, from a meadow by, | |
| Like a storm, suddenly, | 70 |
| The English archery | |
| Struck the French horses | |
| |
| With Spanish yew so strong, | |
| Arrows a cloth-yard long, | |
| That like to serpents stung, | 75 |
| Piercing the weather; | |
| None from his fellow starts, | |
| But playing manly parts, | |
| And, like true English hearts, | |
| Stuck close together. | 80 |
| |
| When down their bows they threw, | |
| And forth their bilboes drew, | |
| And on the French they flew, | |
| Not one was tardy; | |
| Arms were from shoulders sent; | 85 |
| Scalps to the teeth were rent; | |
| Down the French peasants went; | |
| Our men were hardy. | |
| |
| This while our noble king, | |
| His broadsword brandishing, | 90 |
| Down the French host did ding, | |
| As to o’erwhelm it; | |
| And many a deep wound lent, | |
| His arms with blood besprent, | |
| And many a cruel dent | 95 |
| Bruisèd his helmet. | |
| |
| Glo’ster, that duke so good, | |
| Next of the royal blood, | |
| For famous England stood | |
| With his brave brother, | 100 |
| Clarence, in steel so bright, | |
| Though but a maiden knight, | |
| Yet in that furious fight | |
| Scarce such another. | |
| |
| Warwick in blood did wade; | 105 |
| Oxford the foe invade, | |
| And cruel slaughter made, | |
| Still as they ran up. | |
| Suffolk his axe did ply; | |
| Beaumont and Willoughby | 110 |
| Bare them right doughtily, | |
| Ferrers and Fanhope. | |
| |
| Upon Saint Crispin’s day | |
| Fought was this noble fray, | |
| Which fame did not delay | 115 |
| To England to carry; | |
| O, when shall Englishmen | |
| With such acts fill a pen, | |
| Or England breed again | |
| Such a King Harry? | 120 |
| |
