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But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train

Landed King Harry:

And taking many a fort
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopp'd his way,

Where the French gen'ral lay

With all his power.

Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

Unto him 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

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By fame been raised.

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"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 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

Lopp'd the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped

Among his hench-men.

Excester had the rear,

A braver man not there,

O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armour on armour shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,—

To hear was wonder.

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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 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 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 bilbos 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'er-whelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood 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 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 Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry:

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WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'T is because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish,-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

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Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

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