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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.

Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rockmaty
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

you!
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war! And you, good

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.

yeomen, y alem

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.

Whose limbs were made in England, show us

here
The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding : which I

doubt not ;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ;
Follow your spirit : and, upon this charge,
Cry – God for Harry! England ! and Saint

George !

SHAKESPEARE.

FROM "EPIGRAMS," BOOK IV. EP. 6.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

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

OF THE WARRES IN IRELAND.
To England to carry ;
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,

I PRAISED the speech, but cannot now abide it,
Or England breed again

That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it;
Such a King Harry ?

For I have proved it now and plainly see 't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;

Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome. THE KING TO HIS SOLDIERS BEFORE There without baked, rost, boyl’d, it is no cheere ; HARFLEUR.

Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.
There we complaine of one wan rosted chick ;

Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick. ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down, 10 once more ;

We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down ; close the wall up with our English dead ! Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow, In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow. As modest stillness, and humility :

There if a child but cry, O what a spite ! But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Here we can brook three larums in one night. Then imitate the action of the tiger ;

There homely rooms must be perfumed with Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Roses ; Disguise fair pature with hard-favored rage : Here match and powder ne're offend our noses. Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ;

There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets ; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Here we stand fast against a showre of bullets.

FROM "KING HENRY V.," ACT 111. SC. 1.

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“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 ?”

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.

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 !

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP,

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

“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 !

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 perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he lield
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 me 1
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.

“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 yive thee rest, thou valiant soul !

That fought so well for Spain ; I'd rather half my land were gone,

So thou wert here again !”

SHAKESPEARE

We bore the good Lord James away,

And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship

Towards the Scottish shore.

HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.
His puissant sword unto his side
Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold brott
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,

No welcome greeted our return,

Nor claug of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death

Before the mighty dead.

Mount, Juan, mount; 'whate'er betide, away the

brille fling, And plunge the rowels in his side. - My horse

shall save my King!

To whom he bore so fell a grutch
He nc'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.

“Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, re

ceived their land from yours, And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it

thine secuiresı; '. If I should fly, and thot, my King, be found ainong the.dead,

i How could I stayı 'mong gentlemen, such scorn

on my' gray head ?

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 hal 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.

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DR. SAMUEL BUTLER,

FROM THE SPANISH.

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THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

FLODDEN FIELD. “Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord ! your

FROM " MARMION,” CANTO Vi. gallant horse is sick,

(The battle was fought in September, 1513, between the forces of His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King James

slain with eight thousand of his inen. Lord Surrey commanded the eye the film is thick ;

English troops.),
Mount, mount on mine, O, mount apace, I pray A MOMENT then 'Lord Marmion stayed,

thee, mount and fly!
Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace, — their And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
trampling hoofs are nigh!

Then forward moved his band; ,'

Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, "My King, my King ! you 're wounded sore,

He halted by a cross of stone, the blood runs from your feet ;

That, on a hillock'standing lone, But only lay a hand before, and I'll list you to

Did all the field command. your seat ; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast -I hear Hence might they see the full array their coming cry,

Of either host for'deadly fray ; Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy, — I'll save Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, you though I die !

And fronted north and south,',

And distant salutation past “Stand, noble steed! this hour of need, – be From the loud cannon-mouth ; gentle as a lamb ;

Not in the close successive rattle I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, — thy That breathės the voice of modern battle, master dear I am,

But slow and far between.

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