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Title: To The Cambro-Britans And Their Harp, His Ballad Of Agincourt
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
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 tow'rds Agincourt,
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French General lay,
With all his Power.
Which in his Hight of Pride,
King HENRY to deride,
His Ransome 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 haue we well begun,
Battles so bravely won,
Have ever to the Son,
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.
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When 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,
Lop'd the French Lillies.
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager Vaward led;
With the main, HENRY sped,
Among'st his Hench-men.
EXCESTER had the Rere,
A Braver 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 groan,
To hear, 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 Signal aim,
To our hid Forces;
When from a Medow by,
Like a Storm suddenly,
The English Archery
Stuck the French Horses,
With Spanish Ewgh 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 Bowes they threw,
And forth their Bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardie;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the Teeth were rent,
Down the French Peasants went,
Our Men were hardie.
This while our Noble King,
His broad Sword brandishing,
Downe the French Hoast did ding,
As to o'r-whelm it;
And many a deep Wound lent,
His Arms with Bloud besprent,
And many a cruel Dent
Bruised his Helmet.
GLOSTER, 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 Bloud did wade,
OXFORD the Foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
SUFFOLK his Axe did ply,
BEAUMONT and WILLOVGHBY
Bare them right doughtily,
FERRERS and FANHOPE.
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 again,
Such a King HARRY?
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: To The Cambro-Britans And Their Harp, His Ballad Of Agincovrt
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