Drawn up in three divisions, soon as the English
found
That the Frenchmen were advancing, they started
from the ground,
Alarm’d, and burning in their hearts to teach that
mighty host
How useless, where brace men are met, is every empty
boast;
Although four times as numerous is the array of France,
Each yeoman’s eye flash’d sternest joy to see the foe
advance.
First in the first division, the men-at-arms before,
Sat the bold Black Prince on horseback, with gallants
many more,
All longing that the hour would come, to strike one
valiant more,
That should lift the Rose of England high, and sweep
the Lilies low;
But there were older heads than these, whom there
the king had plac’d,
That their cautious wisdom might allay the younger
warriors’ haste.
In front of this division, two thousand archers stand
With cloth yard arrows at their back, and long bows
in the hand.
Well could those archers urge the shaft, and by their
shafts alone
Full many a valiant Frenchman was that day over-
thrown;
For when in merry England, at the butts they shot
each day,
And some i’faith would practise among the deer, men
say.
And close upon the prince’s wing, to aid him if need
were,
The stout Earls of Northampton and Arundel stand
near;
Twelve hundred archers bend the bow beneath their
high command;
And close behind the archers, eight hundred spearmen
stand,
And with these two brave noblemen was many a
knight and squire,
The mem’ry of whose gallant deeds ’tis pity should
expire.
Edward the king in person the third division led;
Upon a little palfrey, through all the ranks he sped,
And with a bright triumphant smile, he bade them not
to fear,
“Those Frenchmen shall remember this day for many a
year;
For by my crown and sceptre, and by my sword and fay,
I prophesy, my gallant hearts, we conquer them this
day.”
As thus he spoke, in every soul the love of country
glow’d,
Each call’d to mind his wife and babes and best-belov’d
abode;
Each swore that he in Edward’s cause would stand or
fall that day,
And “St. George for merry England!” swept through
the small array;
The soldiers now with eager glance the thronging
foemen scann’d,
And they vow’d to give each Frenchman six feet of
his own land.
The host of France sway’d onward, no order they
maintain’d,
To marshal them in equal ranks their leaders scarcely
deign’d.
“This handful of wild Islanders we’ll quickly crush,”
they cried;
And darkly on that field and day they suffered for their
pride.
As soon as France’s sovereign came in sight of that
bold foe,
His blood began to boil with wrath—he burn’d to strike
the blow.
“Call up those tardy Genoese, and now the fight
begin,
In God’s name, and St. Denis’s ’tis time that France
should win.”
But here the cowardly Genoese with many words
complain,
That, with carrying of their cross-bows, on foot six
leagues with pain,
They were so worn and spent with toil that nothing
they could do
Against an army who had ta’en their rest the whole
night through.
“Now,” cries the Count Alen
(Peter John Allan)
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