A knight, amongst the Scots there was, Which saw Earl Douglas die; Who straight in heart did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percy.

PART II

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called; Who, with a spear most bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight.

And pa.s.sed the English archers all, Without or dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear.

With such a vehement force and might, He did his body gore: The staff ran through the other side, A large cloth-yard and more.

Thus did both those n.o.bles die, Whose courage none could stain.

An English archer then perceived The n.o.ble earl was slain.

He had a good bow in his hand, Made of a trusty tree.

An arrow of a cloth-yard long, Up to the head drew he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery, So right the shaft he set; The grey-goose wing that was thereon, In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun: For when they rang the evening bell, The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there were slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold Baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both Knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail, As one in doleful dumps, For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas there were slain Sir Hugh Montgomery; And Sir Charles Murray, that from field One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, His sister's son was he: Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case, Did with Earl Douglas die.

Of twenty hundred Scottish spears Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come Their husbands to bewail: They washed their wounds in brinish tears; But all would not prevail!

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away.

They kissed them, dead, a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinborough, Where Scotland's King did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain.

'O, heavy news!' King James did say, 'Scotland may witness be, I have not any captain more Of such account as he!'

Like tidings to King Henry came, Within as short a s.p.a.ce, That Percy of Northumberland, Was slain in Chevy Chase.

'Now, G.o.d be with him!' said our king, 'Sith it will no better be; I trust I have, within my realm, Five hundred as good as he!

'Yet shall not Scots, nor Scotland, say But I will vengeance take; And be revenged on them all, For brave Earl Percy's sake.'

This vow the king did well perform After, on Humbledown, In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of great renown;

And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands die.

Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy Chase, Made by the Earl Percy.

G.o.d save our king; and bless this land With plenty, joy, and peace!

And grant henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt n.o.blemen may cease!

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT

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 Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnish'd in warlike sort March'd towards 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 To the King 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.

Poictiers 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, Lop'd the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread, The eager vanward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst 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 cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, O n.o.ble Erpingham, Which did 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 bilbows 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 n.o.ble 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.

Glo'ster, 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 n.o.ble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; O when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?