The moon was clear, the day drew near, The Gordons gude, in English blude The Percy and Montgomery met, "Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy," he said, "Or else I will lay thee low!" "To whom maun I yield," quoth Earl Percy, "Since I see it maun be so?" "Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun, "I will not yield to a braken-bush, Nor yet will I yield to a brier; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, This deed was done at the Otterbourne, Earl Douglas was buried at the braken-bush, Unknown AGINCOURT [OCTOBER 25, 1415] FAIR stood the wind for France Nor now to prove our chance But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, And taking many a fort, Skirmishing day by day 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 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 amazèd: Yet have we well begun: Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. "And for myself (quoth he) 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, Than when our grandsire great By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.” The Duke of York so dread Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there; O Lord, how hot they were They now to fight are gone, 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, To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, 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, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, Bruised his helmet. Gloster, that duke so good, With his brave brother; Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Suffolk his axe did ply, Upon Saint Crispin's Day Michael Drayton [1563-1631] A BALLAD OF ORLEANS [1429] THE fray began at the middle-gate, The foe was far away. There was no knight in the land of France Could gar that foe to flee, Till up there rose a young maiden, And drove them to the sea. Sixty forts around Orleans town, And sixty forts of stone! Sixty forts at our gates last night— Talbot, Suffolk, and Pole are fled Many a captain who would not drink, |