THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

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 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 might of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

To the king sending.

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

1 This poem and the one which follows were, by the oversight of the Editor, omitted in preparing the first edition of this collection, and are therefore added here instead of appearing in their >roper places.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they be one to ten,
Be not amazed.

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,
No 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 vaward led,

With the main, Henry sped,
Amongst his Frenchmen.

Exeter 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 their 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'erwhelm it,

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, 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.'

HYMN

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MON

UMENT, APRIL 19, 1830.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept ;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,
When like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free.

1 MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull, Warwickshire, England, about the year 1593, and died in 1631. He was a mos': voluminous and generally uninteresting verse writer. His most extensive work was an endless description of England entitled the Polyolbion. That he was not, however, devoid of poetic fire and imagination is amply proved by this spirited ballad.