Whanne Harflete was getyn, that ryall toun,
Through the grace of God omnipotent;
Oure kyng he made hym redy bown,
And to Caleys ward full faire he went,
My brother Clarence verament,
Ye shall ryde al be my syde,
My cosyn York ye take entent,
For ye shall also this tyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
My cosyn Huntyngdon shall with me ryde,
The erl of Suffolk that is so fre,
The erl of Oxenford shall not abyde,
He shall comen forth with his meyne,
Sire Thomas Erpyngham, that nevere dide faille,
And yit another so mote y thee,
Sire John the knyght of Cornewaille,
He dar abyde and that know yee.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Sire Gilbert Umfreville wil us avayle,
The lord Clyfford so God me spede,
Sire William Boucer that will not faille,
They will us helpe when we hav nede.
Toward Caleys full faire they yede,
In the cuntrey of Picardie,
And out of Normandie they gan ryde,
Now Crist save all the cumpanye.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Our kyng rood forth, blessed he be,
He sparid neither dale ne doun,
Be townes grete, and castell hyghe,
Til he com to the water of Som;
The brigge the Frensshemen hadde drawe a doun,
That over the water he myght nought ryde;
Oure kyng made hym redy bown,
And to the water of Turwyn he com that tyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure kyng rood forth thanne full good sped,
Into the countrey of Turvyle,
To Agyncourt now as he is ride,
There as oure kyng dyd his bataile;
Be the water of Swerdys withoute faile,
The Frensshemen oure kyng thei did aspye,
And there they thought him to asaile,
All in that feld certeynlye.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The Frensshemen hadde oure kynge umbast
With bataill strong on every syde;
The duke of Orlions seyde in hast,
The kyng of Ingelond with us shall byde;
He gaf hym leve this way to ryde,
Be God, me thenke, he was not wys,
Therefore shall y now be hys gyde,
Or that he come to strong Caleys.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The duke of Braban answerd then,
And seyde, be God in Trinite
Ther be so fewe of thise Inglysshmen
I have no deynte them to se;
Alas! he seyde, what nedith us alle
To day so many for to comen here,
XX^{ti} of us it will befalle
Of them on prisonere.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The duk of Burbon sware be seynt Denys,
And other lordes many on,
We will goo pleye them at dys,
The lordys of Ingelond everych on,
Ther gentilmen seide, be swete seynt John.
Ther archers be sold full fayr plente,
And alle the beste bowemen ich on,
All for a blank of oure mone.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
And thanne answerde the duke of Barrye,
With wordes that were full mochell of pryde,
Be God, he seyde, y wil not sparye,
Over the Englysshmen y thenke to ryde;
And if that they dar us abyde
We shall overthrowe them alle in fere,
Goo we and slee them in this tyde,
And come hom agen to oure dynere.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure gracious kyng, that is so good,
He batailyd hym ful rially;
Stakes he hewe doun in a wood,
Beforn our archers pyght them on hy;
Oure ordynaunce the Frensshemen gan aspy,
They that were ordeynyd for to ryde,
They lighted doun with sorwe and cry,
And on their feet their gon abyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The duke of York thanne full son
Before oure kyng he fell on kne,
My liege lord, graunt me a bon,
For his love that on croys gan die,
The fore ward this day that ye graunt me,
To be before yow in this feld;
Be myn baner sleyn wil y be,
Or y will turne my backe, or me yelde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Gramercy, cosyn, seyde our kyng,
Thenk on the right of mery Ingelond;
And thanne he gaff hym his blessyng,
And bad the duke he sholde up stond;
Crist, he seyde, that shop bothe sone and sonde,
And art lord and kyng of myght,
This day hold over me thin holy hond,
And spede me well in al my right.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Help seynt George oure lady knyght,
Seynt Edward that is so fre,
Oure lady that art Godys modyr bright,
And seynt Thomas of Caunterbure;
He bad alle men blithe to be,
And seyde, Felas, well shall we spede,
Every man in his degre,
I shall yow quyte full well youre mede.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure kyng seyde, Felas, what tyme of day?
Sire, thei seyde, it is ner pryme:
Go we anon to this jornay,
Be the grace of God it is good tyme,
For alle the seyntes that lyn in shryne,
To God for us they be praieng;
The religious of Ingelond all benynge,
'Ora pro nobis' for us they syng.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The kyng knelyd doun in that stounde,
And Englysshmen on every syde,
And thries there kyssyd the grounde,
And on there feet gon glyde:
Crist, seyde the kyng, as y am thi knyght,
This day me save for Ingelond sake,
And lat nevere that good Reme for me be fright,
Ne me on lyve this day be take.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Avaunt baner, withoute lettyng.
Seynt George before avowe we hyme,
The baner of the Trynyte forth ye bryng,
And seynte Edward baner at this tyme;
Over, he seyde, Lady Hevene Quene,
Myn own baner with hire shall be;
The Frensshman seyde al be dene,
Seynt George all over oure kyng they se.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
They triumpyd up full meryly,
The grete bataille togyder yede;
Oure archiers shotte full hertyly,
And made Frensshmen faste to blede;
There arwes wente full good sped,
Oure enemyes therwith doun gon falle,
Thorugh bresplate, habirion, and bassonet yede,
Slayn there were xj thousand on a rowe alle.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure gracious kyng men myghte knowe,
That day he faught withe his owne hond,
He sparyd nother heigh no lowe,
There was no man his dynt myght stond;
There was nevere no kyng yit in this lond,
That evere dyd better in a day,
Therfore all Ingelond may synge oo song,
'Laus Deo' we may well say.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The duk of Gloucestre, that is no nay,
That day full worthyly he wroughte,
On every syde he made good way,
The Frensshemen faste to grounde he brought.
The erl of Huntyngdon sparyd nought;
The erl of Oxenford layd on all soo;
The yonge erl of Devenshire he ne rought;
The Frensshmen faste to grounde gan goo.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The duk of Orlions thanne was woo,
That day was taken prisonere;
The erl of Ewe he was also;
The duke of Braband slayn was there;
The duke of Barre fast hym by;
The duke of Launson wente nevere away;
Ne the erle Neverse certeynly,
Ne many other lordes that y cannot say.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The erl of Rychemond certeynly,
That day was taken in the feld;
The erl of Vendue was right sory;
And Sir Bursegaunt he gan hym yeld.
And thus oure kyng conqueryd the feld,
Through the grace of God omnipotent;
He toke his prisoners yonge and olde,
And faire to Caleys ward thanne he went:
The yere of his regne the thridde this was.
_Gloria tibi Trinitas._