ODE 12.
To the Cambro-Britans and their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt.
[Besides this Ballad: Michael Drayton published, in 1627, a much longer Poem upon this celebrated Battle.]
Air 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 Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth 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 amazèd!
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 lillies."
The Duke of York so dread
The eager Vanward led;
With the Main, Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen:
Exeter had the Rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone;
Armour on armour shone;
Drum now to drum did groan:
To hear, was wonder.
That, with cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet, to trumpet spake;
Thunder, to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces:
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English Archery
Stuck 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 bilbowes [swords] drew
And on the French they flew:
Not one was tardy.
Arms were from the shoulders sent
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
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
Bruisèd his helmet.
Gloucester that Duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother.
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a Maiden Knight;
Yet in that furious fight,
Scarce such another!
Warwick, in blood did wade;
Oxford, the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily:
Ferrers, and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's Day,
Fought was this noble Fray;
Which Fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
FINIS.