Here you will find the Long Poem Agincourt of poet Michael Drayton
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, 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 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 Lopp'd the French lilies.' The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward 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, Armour on armour 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 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 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?