Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of English Verse
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Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
  
Michael Drayton. 1563–1631
  
119. Agincourt
  
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 Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 
    Landed King Harry. 
 
And taking many a fort, 
Furnish'd in warlike sort,  10
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt 
    In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopp'd his way, 
Where the French gen'ral lay  15
    With all his power. 
 
Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 
    Unto him 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 
    Lopp'd the French lilies.' 
 
The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led;  50
With the main Henry sped 
    Among 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, 
Armour on armour 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 didst the signal aim 
    To our hid forces! 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly  70
The English archery 
    Stuck 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 bilbos 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. 
 
Gloster, 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 English men 
With such acts fill a pen? 
Or England breed again 
    Such a King Harry? 120
 
GLOSS:  bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
 
 
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