The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew,
And mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons gude, in English blude
They wat their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about,
Till a' the fray was dune.

The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other was fain;
They swakkit swords, and sair they swat,
And the blude ran down between.

"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,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush,
That grows upon yon lilye lea."

"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,
He struck his sword's point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.

This deed was done at the Otterbourne,
About the breaking o' the day;

Earl Douglas was buried at the braken-bush,
And the Percy led captive away.

Unknown

AGINCOURT

[OCTOBER 25, 1415]

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 Caux, 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.

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:
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 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

Lopped the French lilies.”

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

Among his henchmen.

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,
Armor on armor 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,
Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces!

When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly

The English archery

Struck 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 broadsword 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.

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.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

A BALLAD OF ORLEANS

[1429]

THE fray began at the middle-gate,
Between the night and the day;
Before the matin bell was rung

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—
To-day there is not one!

Talbot, Suffolk, and Pole are fled
Beyond the Loire, in fear—

Many a captain who would not drink,
Hath drunken deeply there—