* * * * *

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

[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,
  At Kause, the mouth of Seine,
  With all his martial train,
      Landed King Harry,

  And taking many a fort,
  Furnished in warlike sort,
  Marched towards Agincourt
      In happy hour,—­
  Skirmishing day by day
  With those that stopped his way,
  Where the French general lay
      With all his power,

  Which in his height of pride,
  King Henry to deride,
  His ransom to provide
      To the king sending;
  Which he neglects the while,
  As from a nation vile,
  Yet, with an angry smile,
      Their fall portending.

  And turning to his men,
  Quoth our brave Henry then: 
  Though they to one be ten,
      Be not amazed;
  Yet have we well begun,
  Battles so bravely won
  Have ever to the sun
      By fame been raised.

  And for myself, quoth he,
  This my full rest shall be;
  England ne’er mourn for me,
      Nor more esteem me,
  Victor I will remain,
  Or on this earth lie slain;
  Never shall she sustain
      Loss to redeem me.

  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,
  Claiming the regal seat,
  By many a warlike feat
      Lopped the French lilies.

  The Duke of York so dread
  The eager vaward led;
  With the main Henry sped,
      Amongst his henchmen,
  Excester had the rear,—­
  A braver man not there: 
  O Lord! how hot they were
      On the false Frenchmen!

  They now to fight are gone;
  Armor on armor shone;
  Drum now to drum did groan,—­
      To hear was wonder;
  That with the cries they make
  The very earth did shake;
  Trumpet to trumpet spake,
      Thunder to thunder.

  Well it thine age became,
  O noble Erpingham! 
  Which did the signal aim
      To our hid forces;
  When, from a meadow by,
  Like a storm, suddenly. 
  The English archery
      Struck the French horses

  With Spanish yew so strong,
  Arrows a cloth-yard long,
  That like to serpents stung,
      Piercing the weather;
  None from his fellow starts,
  But playing manly parts,
  And, like true English hearts,
      Stuck close together.

  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;
  Scalps to the teeth were rent;
  Down the French peasants went;
      Our men were hardy.