Arms were from shoulders sent; Scalps to the teeth were rent; Down the French peasants went ; Our men were hardy.

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.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood

With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay

To England to carry ; O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock →→
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean."
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height !-On, on, you noblest
English,

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your mothers; now attest,

That those whom you called fathers, did beget

HARFLEUR.

FROM "KING HENRY V.," ACT III. SC. 1.

once more;

close the wall up with our English dead!

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness, and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,

We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down;
Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,
A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.
There if a child but cry, O what a spite !
Here we can brook three larums in one night.
There homely rooms must be perfumed with

Roses;

Here match and powder ne're offend our noses. There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets; Here we stand fast against a showre of bullets.

"Now praised be God, the day is won!

They fly, o'er flood and fell, Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well?"

"O, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said, "And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree!

"There lies, above his master's heart,

The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!

"The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair,

And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.

"O Bothwell banks, that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May!

The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.

"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain The sorest stroke upon thy brow

Hath fallen this day in Spain !

"We'll bear them back unto our ship,
We'll bear them o'er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth
Within our own countrie.

"And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure,

The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
Shall never bear the Moor!"

The King he lighted from his horse, He flung his brand away,

And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay.

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!"

We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return,

Nor clang of martial tread,

But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart in fair Melrose;
And woful men were we that day, -
God grant their souls repose!

WILLIAM EDMUNDSTONE AYTOUN.

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

FROM "KING HENRY IV.," PART 1. ACT I. SC. 3.

BUT I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumèd like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took 't away again; -
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what,

He should, or he should not; for he made me ma f To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark!

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly, and, but for these vile guus,
He would himself have been a soldier.

SHAKESPEARE

HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART 1.

His puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth And serve for fight and dinner both. In it he melted lead for bullets

To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,

To whom he bore so fell a grutch
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.

The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, it was so manful;
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.

This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;
"T would make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth:
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure ;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

DR. SAMUEL BUTLER.

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

FROM THE SPANISH.

"YOUR horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your
gallant horse is sick,
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his
eye the film is thick;

Mount, mount on mine, 0, mount apace,
thee, mount and fly!
Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,
trampling hoofs are nigh!

pray

I

their

"My King, my King! you're wounded sore, the blood runs from your feet;

But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat;

Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!

their coming cry,

-

-I hear

FLODDEN FIELD.

FROM "MARMION," CANTO VI.

[The battle was fought in September, 1513, between the forces of England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King James

slain with eight thousand of his men. Lord Surrey commanded the English troops.),

A MOMENT then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward moved his band; ‚'
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a cross of stone,'
That, on a hillock standing lone,
Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array Of either host for deadly fray;

And fronted north and south, And distant salutation past

From the loud cannon-mouth; Not in the close successive rattle

master dear I am,

But slow and far between.