| |
| 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 |
| Bruiséd 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 |
| |
