A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

~And if my atandard-btlarer ran, lUI fall fun ~ell he may,

For never 1aw I promise yel of euoh a bloody fray,

Preas ,,.here ye aeemywbiteplume shine, amidst the rankaofwar,

And be yoW" oriftftmme w-day tbe helmet of Nava.ne! N

Hurrah I the foes are moving I Hark to the mingled .ella,

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and ro.:uiug .c:ulverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fut across Saint Andnfs plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Gucldera and Alma.yne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are strikio,g deep, a tlJoJtsand spears in re~t.

A thousa.nd kuights a.re pressin~ close behind the snow-whire

crest;

And in they burst, and on tbey l'Ullh'd, while, li\:e a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage bJa~ed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is oars. :Mayenne hath tnrn'd
his rein;
0' Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemis.h Cou11t is slain.
Their ranb are breaking lik.e thin clouda beCore a Biecay gale;
The field ie heap^1 d. with bleeding ateeda, a11d flags, aud. cloven
maiL
And then we thought on vengeii.Dee, and, all along oar 1-an,
•• Remember St. Bartholomew," was pass'd from man to ~n.
But out apake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman ia my foe:
DoWll, down, with every forei~er, but let your brethren go."
ObI wu there ever allch a klught, in friendship or in war,
As oar Sovereign Lord, Kiug Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Bight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France
to-day;
And man; a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we o the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good lord of Ro&ny bath ta'en the comet white.
Our own true Maximilian tlle cornet white hath ta'eo,
The cornet white with crosses bla.c:.k, the flag ol false LorrNBe·
Up with it high; nnf~trl it wide; that all the host may know
Jlow God hath humbled. the proud h.ou.ae which wt'Ought b.ia
church such woe.
Then on the groond, while trumpets soaud thair loudeet poin&
of war,
Fling the red shreds, a footclotb meet for Henry of Navarre.

Hoi maiden• ofVienn.a; Hot matrons of Lucerne,

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who navu .01111 fei~m.

Ho l Philip, send, for chari~, thy Mes.i.ca11. pictole.J,

'l'hat Antwerp monb mayamg a mua for ·thy poor ~rmen'•

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