Fearless, vagabond and free Drifting down the restless years — Watching, guarding, sailing still Not for them the heavenly song; Than those angels, row on row, 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. Nora Holland AGINCOURT Fair stood the wind for France, But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, And taking many a fort, With those that stopped his way, 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, And, turning to his men, Yet have we well begun; By Fame been raised! "And for myself," quoth he, Or on this earth lie slain; 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, They now to fight are gone; Drum now to drum did groan; That with the cries they make, Well it thine age became, Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, 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, Arms were from shoulders sent, This while our noble king, 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, Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his ax did ply, Upon Saint Crispin's Day |