The Duke of York so dread,
The vaward led,
Wich the maine Henry sped,
Amongst his Hench_men_,
Excester had the rere,
A brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen.
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drumme now to drumme did grone,
To hear was wonder,
That with cryes they make,
The very earth did shake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signall ayme,
To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storme suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses.
With Spanish Ewgh so strong,
Arrowes 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 downe their bowes they threw,
And forth their bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardie;
Armes were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent,
Down the French pesants went,
Our men were hardie.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32