Twas finest hour of men (not still abed)
O’er fields of France, as Agincourt played out
Outnumbered, weary, some yet full of dread
Didst gather ‘round to hear their ‘Liege Lord’ spout
King Harry’s words rang out amongst the throng
Both Noblemen and Commoner alike
“Tis here we are, where England doth belong”
“Upon St Crispin’s day, no more shall hike”
Steadfast his troops and loyal to a man
Stand with their King in just and ‘Sainted’ cause
Awaiting to engage, to show they can
“Cry God for Harry,” broke the silent pause
As ‘Longbow’ filled the air and blocked the sun
‘Les Fletchers’ art rained down; with French undone