To those, as we are led to believe, contemporary poems, which appear in the body of the work, the Author is induced to subjoin a "Ballad of Agincourt," of much later date indeed, but which, for the noble national spirit which it breathes throughout, and the vigour of its description, cannot easily be exceeded: it is not so generally known as it deserves to be; though some of its expressions may sound strangely and quaintly to our ears. It will be found in Drayton's Works, p. 424.
"Fair 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 Kaux, 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.
Who, in the 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 be slain;—
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.[307] Poitiers and Cressy tell,
Where 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 lilies.
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
How fierce and hot they were[308]
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 the cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Who 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 serpent 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 bilbows 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.
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
Bruised 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 famous 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 St. Crispin's day,
Fought was this noble fray;
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
Oh! when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!"
