By MICHAEL DRAYTON[1]
[Footnote 1: Michael Drayton was an English poet who lived from 1563 to 1631. Little is known of his life beyond the fact that he served as a page in the household of some nobleman, and that he tried in vain to gain the patronage of King James I. This Ballad of Agincourt is one of the finest of the English martial ballads.]
Fair stood the wind for France,[2]
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.[3]
[Footnote 2: From 1337 to 1453 the French and the English were engaged
in a series of struggles to which the name of The Hundred Years'
War has been given. The cause of the conflict was the attempt of the
English kings to establish their rule over France.]
[Footnote 3: This was Henry V, king of England from 1413 to 1422. He was a general of great ability, and the battle described in this ballad was one of his chief victories.]
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt[4]
In happy hour,—
Skirmishing day by day.
[Footnote 4: The English army numbered but 14,000, while the French were about 50,000 strong. Henry, to save his men, was willing to make terms with the French, who, however, demanded unconditional surrender. The two armies met for battle near the little village of Agincourt.]
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[5] and Cressy[6] tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire[7] great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies." [8]
[Footnote 5: The Battle of Poitiers was fought in 1356. The English under the Black Prince, son of Edward III of England, defeated the French under King John, though the French outnumbered them more than five to one.]
[Footnote 6: In the Battle of Cressy, which was fought in 1346, 35,000
English under King Edward III defeated 75,000 French under Philip VI.
About 30,000 of the French army were slain.]
[Footnote 7: The great-grandfather of Henry V was Edward III, the hero of the early part of the Hundred Years' War.]
[Footnote 8: The lily, or fleur-de-lis, is the national flower of France. Lopped the French lilies is a poetical way of saying defeated the French.]
[Illustration: "VICTOR I WILL REMAIN"]
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward[9] 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!
[Footnote 9: Vaward is an old word for vanward, or advance-guard.]
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[10] 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.
[Footnote 10: Bilboes is a poetical word for swords.]
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,[11]
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
BruisÉd his helmet.
[Footnote 11: To ding is to strike.]
Glo'ster, 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[12] day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!
[Footnote 12: Crispin was a Christian saint who suffered martyrdom in the third century. The 25th of October was made sacred to him. It was on Saint Crispin's day, 1415, that the Battle of Agincourt was fought.]
