Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory!

THE BALLAD 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,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth toward Agincourt
In happy hour—

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped 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, 66 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 vaward 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;
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 did 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.