Ode to the Cambro-Britons and their Harp, His Ballad of Agi
Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance;Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial trainLanded King Harry.
And taking many a fort,Furnish'd in warlike sort,Marcheth towards AgincourtIn happy hour;Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopp'd his way,Where the French gen'ral layWith all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the King sending;Which he neglects the while,As from a nation vileYet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.
And turning to his menQuoth our brave Henry then:"Though they to one be tenBe not amazed.Yet have we well begun:Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 sustainLoss to redeem me!
"Poitiers and Cressy tellWhen most their pride did swellUnder our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp'd the French lilies."
The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry spedAmongst his henchmen:Excester had the rear,A braver man not thereO Lord, how hot they wereOn 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 cries 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 aimTo our hid forces;When, from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStuck 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 heartsStuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilboes 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 dentBruised his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stoodWith his brave brother.Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knight,Yet in that furious fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily;Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall English menWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
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