Like to an arrow from the bow, The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, Like to the lightning from the sky, SIMON WASTEL. Willy Browned in Varrow. "WILLY 's rare, and Willy 's fair, "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow; "Oh came you by yon water-side? Or came you by yon meadow green? She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow. ANONYMOUS. Verses. WRITTEN IN THE TOWER, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION. My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. I sought for death and found it in the wombe, The Ballad of Agincourt. FAIR stood the wind for France But putting to the main, At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, And taking many a fort, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power, Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending; Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Be not amazed; Yet have we well begun- Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be; Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain: Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell, Than when our grandsire great, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear A braver man not there: O Lord! how hot they were They now to fight are gone; Drum now to drum did groan To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make Well it thine age became, Which did the signal aim When, from a meadow by, The English archery Struck the French horses, With Spanish yew so strong, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw And forth their bilbows 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. 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, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, With his brave brother |