Peace was made with France, and to seal the peace Henry married the French princess, Katherine. A little son was born to them at Windsor, and was called Henry of Windsor, Prince of Wales; he was afterwards Henry the Sixth. When Henry the Fifth knew he was going to die, he called his brothers together and gave them good advice about ruling England and France, and begged them to take great care of his little son. Henry the Sixth was not a year old when his father died, and he was crowned at once. One of the finest English poems we have, was written about the Battle of Agincourt. I. 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 Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. II. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Harry then, Though they be one to ten, Be not amazed. Yet have we well begun; Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. III. 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. IV. Poitiers and Cressy tell When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Then when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. V. They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour 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. VI. 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. VII. When down their bows they threw And forth their bilbos 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. VIII. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it. And many a deep wound lent His arms with blood besprent. And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. IX.