Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd
His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—
But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
His name was English Will.
"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come hither to my knee;