Fearless, vagabond and free
Children of the spray,
Spirits of old mariners
Drifting down the restless years —
Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers,
So do seamen say.
Watching, guarding, sailing still
Round the shores they knew,
Where the cliffs of Devon rise
Red against the sullen skies
(Dearer far than Paradise),
'Mid the tossing blue.
Not for them the heavenly song;
Sweeter still they find
Than those angels, row on row,
Thunder of the bursting snow
Seething on the rocks below,
Singing of the wind.
Fairer than the streets of gold
Those wild fields of foam, Where the horses of the sea Stamp and whinny ceaselessly, Warding from all enemy,
Shores they once called home.
So the sea-gulls call and cry 'Neath the cliffs to-day,
Spirits of old mariners
Drifting down the restless years
Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers
So do seamen say.
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
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.
"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
Amongst his henchmen;
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 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 bilboes 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.
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 ax 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.
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