BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.
(From "England's Heroical Epistles[5].")
Faire stood the wind for France,
When we, our sayles advance,
Nor now to proue our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the mayne,
At Kaux, the mouth of Sene,
With all his martiall trayne,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,
In happy houre.
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.
Which in his hight of pride.
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to prouide,
To our 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 begunne,
Battells so bravely wonne,
Have ever to the sonne,
By fame beene raysed."
"And for myself," quoth he,
"This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth be slaine,
Never shall shee sustaine
Losse to redeeme me."
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell.
No lesse our skill is,
Then when oure grandsire great,
Clayming the regall seate,
By many a warlike feate,
Lop'd the French lillies.
The Duke of York so dread,
The vaward led,
Wich the maine Henry sped,
Amongst his Henchmen,
Excester had the rere,
A brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen.
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drumme now to drumme did grone,
To hear was wonder,
That with cryes they make,
The very earth did shake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signall ayme,
To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storme suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses.
With Spanish Ewgh so strong,
Arrowes 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 downe their bowes they threw,
And forth their bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardie;
Armes were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent,
Down the French pesants went,
Our men were hardie.
This while oure noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,
Downe the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelme it.
And many a deep wound lent,
His armes with bloud besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his braue brother,
Clarence, in steele so bright,
Though but a maiden knight.
Yet in that furious light
Scarce such another.
Warwick, in bloud did wade,
Oxford, the foe inuade,
And cruel slaughter made;
Still as they ran up,
Suffolk, his axe did ply,
Beavmont and Willovghby,
Ferres and Tanhope.
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 againe
Such a King Harry.