To The Cambro-Britans and their Harpe, his Ballad of Agincovrt
Faire stood the Wind for France,
When we our Sayles aduance,
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,
10Furnish'd in Warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt,
In happy howre;
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French Gen'rall lay,
With all his Power.
Which in his Hight of Pride,
King Henry to deride,
His Ransome to prouide
20To 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 braue Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet haue we well begunne,
30Battels so brauely wonne,
Haue euer to the Sonne,
By Fame beene raysed.
And, for my Selfe (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'r mourne for Me,
Nor more esteeme me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this Earth lie slaine,
Neuer shall Shee sustaine,
40Losse to redeeme me.
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their Pride did swell,
Vnder our Swords they fell,
No lesse our skill is,
Than when our Grandsire Great,
Clayming the Regall Seate,
By many a Warlike feate,
Lop'd the French Lillies.
The Duke of Yorke so dread,
50The eager Vaward led;
With the maine, Henry sped,
Among'st his Hench-men.
Excester had the Rere,
A Brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false French-men!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on Armour shone,
Drumme now to Drumme did grone,
60To heare, was wonder;
That with the Cryes 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 Signall ayme,
To our hid Forces;
When from a Medow by,
70Like a Storme suddenly,
The English Archery
Stuck the French Horses,