Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
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 |