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[5] and Cressy[6] tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire[7] great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies." [8] [Footnote 5: The Battle of Poitiers was fought in 1356. The English under the Black Prince, son of Edward III of England, defeated the French under King John, though the French outnumbered them more than five to one.] [Footnote 6: In the Battle of Cressy, which was fought in 1346, 35,000 English under King Edward III defeated 75,000 French under Philip VI. About 30,000 of the French army were slain.] [Footnote 7: The great-grandfather of Henry V was Edward III, the hero of the early part of the Hundred Years' War.] [Footnote 8: The lily, or fleur-de-lis, is the national flower of France. _Lopped the French lilies_ is a poetical way of saying _defeated the French._] [Illustration: "VICTOR I WILL REMAIN"] The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward[9] 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! [Footnote 9: _Vaward_ is an old word for _vanward_, or _advance-guard._] 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[10] 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. [Footnote 10: _Bilboes_ is a poetical word for _swords_.] This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding,[11] As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruiséd his helmet. [Footnote 11: To _ding_ is to _strike_.]