A Chronicle of London from 1089 to 1483 Part 41

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The duke of Braban answerd then, And seyde, be G.o.d in Trinite Ther be so fewe of thise Inglysshmen I have no deynte them to se; Alas! he seyde, what nedith us alle To day so many for to comen here, XX^{ti} of us it will befalle Of them on prisonere.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The duk of Burbon sware be seynt Denys, And other lordes many on, We will goo pleye them at dys, The lordys of Ingelond everych on, Ther gentilmen seide, be swete seynt John.

Ther archers be sold full fayr plente, And alle the beste bowemen ich on, All for a blank of oure mone.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

And thanne answerde the duke of Barrye, With wordes that were full moch.e.l.l of pryde, Be G.o.d, he seyde, y wil not sparye, Over the Englysshmen y thenke to ryde; And if that they dar us abyde We shall overthrowe them alle in fere, Goo we and slee them in this tyde, And come hom agen to oure dynere.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Oure gracious kyng, that is so good, He batailyd hym ful rially; Stakes he hewe doun in a wood, Beforn our archers pyght them on hy; Oure ordynaunce the Frensshemen gan aspy, They that were ordeynyd for to ryde, They lighted doun with sorwe and cry, And on their feet their gon abyde.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The duke of York thanne full son Before oure kyng he fell on kne, My liege lord, graunt me a bon, For his love that on croys gan die, The fore ward this day that ye graunt me, To be before yow in this feld; Be myn baner sleyn wil y be, Or y will turne my backe, or me yelde.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Gramercy, cosyn, seyde our kyng, Thenk on the right of mery Ingelond; And thanne he gaff hym his blessyng, And bad the duke he sholde up stond; Crist, he seyde, that shop bothe sone and sonde, And art lord and kyng of myght, This day hold over me thin holy hond, And spede me well in al my right.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Help seynt George oure lady knyght, Seynt Edward that is so fre, Oure lady that art G.o.dys modyr bright, And seynt Thomas of Caunterbure; He bad alle men blithe to be, And seyde, Felas, well shall we spede, Every man in his degre, I shall yow quyte full well youre mede.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Oure kyng seyde, Felas, what tyme of day?

Sire, thei seyde, it is ner pryme: Go we anon to this jornay, Be the grace of G.o.d it is good tyme, For alle the seyntes that lyn in shryne, To G.o.d for us they be praieng; The religious of Ingelond all benynge, 'Ora pro n.o.bis' for us they syng.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The kyng knelyd doun in that stounde, And Englysshmen on every syde, And thries there kyssyd the grounde, And on there feet gon glyde: Crist, seyde the kyng, as y am thi knyght, This day me save for Ingelond sake, And lat nevere that good Reme for me be fright, Ne me on lyve this day be take.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Avaunt baner, withoute lettyng.

Seynt George before avowe we hyme, The baner of the Trynyte forth ye bryng, And seynte Edward baner at this tyme; Over, he seyde, Lady Hevene Quene, Myn own baner with hire shall be; The Frensshman seyde al be dene, Seynt George all over oure kyng they se.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

They triumpyd up full meryly, The grete bataille togyder yede; Oure archiers shotte full hertyly, And made Frensshmen faste to blede; There arwes wente full good sped, Oure enemyes therwith doun gon falle, Thorugh bresplate, habirion, and ba.s.sonet yede, Slayn there were xj thousand on a rowe alle.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

Oure gracious kyng men myghte knowe, That day he faught withe his owne hond, He sparyd nother heigh no lowe, There was no man his dynt myght stond; There was nevere no kyng yit in this lond, That evere dyd better in a day, Therfore all Ingelond may synge oo song, 'Laus Deo' we may well say.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The duk of Gloucestre, that is no nay, That day full worthyly he wroughte, On every syde he made good way, The Frensshemen faste to grounde he brought.

The erl of Huntyngdon sparyd nought; The erl of Oxenford layd on all soo; The yonge erl of Devens.h.i.+re he ne rought; The Frensshmen faste to grounde gan goo.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The duk of Orlions thanne was woo, That day was taken prisonere; The erl of Ewe he was also; The duke of Braband slayn was there; The duke of Barre fast hym by; The duke of Launson wente nevere away; Ne the erle Neverse certeynly, Ne many other lordes that y cannot say.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The erl of Rychemond certeynly, That day was taken in the feld; The erl of Vendue was right sory; And Sir Bursegaunt he gan hym yeld.

And thus oure kyng conqueryd the feld, Through the grace of G.o.d omnipotent; He toke his prisoners yonge and olde, And faire to Caleys ward thanne he went: The yere of his regne the thridde this was.

_Gloria tibi Trinitas._

Pa.s.sUS TERCIUS.

And there he restyd verrament, At his owne will whilys that it was, And s.h.i.+pped thanne in good entent, And at Dovorr landyd y ges; To Caunterbury full fair he past, And offered at Seynt Thomas shryne; Fro thens sone he rod in hast, To Eltham he cam in good tyme.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The Mayr of London was redy bown, With alle the craftes of that cite, Alle clothyd in red thorugh out the town, A semely sight it was to se: To the Blak heth thanne rod he, And spredde the way on every syde; XX^{ti} M^{l} men myght well se, Our comely kyng for to abyde.

_Wot ye right well, &c._

The kyng from Eltham sone he cam, Hyse presenors with hym dede brynge, And to the Blak heth ful sone he cam, He saw London withoughte lesynge; Heil, ryall London, seyde oure kyng, Crist the kepe evere from care; And thanne gaf it his blessyng, And praied to Crist that it well fare.

The Mair hym mette with moche honour, With all the aldermen without lesyng; Heil, seyde the mair, the conquerour, The grace of G.o.d with the doth spryng; Heil duk, heil prynce, heil comely kyng, Most worthiest Lord undir Crist ryall, Heil rulere of Remes withoute lettyng, Heil flour of knyghts now over all.

Here is come youre citee all, Yow to worchepe and to magnyfye, To welcome yow, bothe gret and small, With yow everemore to lyve and dye.

Grauntmercy, Sires, oure kyng gan say; And toward London he gan ride; This was upon seynt Clementys day, They wolcomed hym on every syde.

The lordes of Fraunce, thei gan say then, Ingelond is nought as we wen, It farith be these Englisshmen, As it doth be a swarm of ben; Ingland is like an hive withinne, There fleeres makith us full evell to wryng, Tho ben there arrowes sharpe and kene, Thorugh oure harneys they do us styng.

To London brigge thanne rood oure kyng, The processions there they mette hym ryght, 'Ave Rex Anglor,' their gan syng, 'Flos mundi,' thei seyde, G.o.ddys knyght.

To London brigge whan he com ryght, Upon the gate ther stode on hy, A gyaunt that was full grym of syght, To teche the Frensshmen curtesye.

And at the drawe brigge, that is faste by, To toures there were upright; An antelope and a lyon stondyng hym by, Above them seynt George oure lady knyght, Besyde hym many an angell bright, 'Benedictus' thei gan synge, 'Qui venit in nomine domin.' G.o.ddes knyght, 'Gracia Dei' with yow doth sprynge.

Into London thanne rood oure kyng, Full goodly there thei gonnen hym grete; Thorugh out the town thanne gonne they syng, For joy and merthe y yow behete; Men and women for joye they alle, Of his comyn thei weren so fayn, That the Condyd bothe grete and smalle, Ran wyn ich on as y herde sayn.

The tour of Cornhill that is so shene, I may well say now as y knowe, It was full of Patriarkes alle be dene, 'Cantate' thei songe upon a rowe; There bryddes thei gon down throwe, An hundred there flewe aboughte oure kyng, 'Laus ejus' bothe hyghe and lowe 'In ecclesia sanctorum' thei dyd syng.

Unto the Chepe thanne rood oure kyng; To the Condyt whanne he com tho, The XII apostelys thei gon syng, 'Benedict. anima domino'

XII kynges there were on a rowe, They knelyd doun be on asent, And obles aboughte oure kyng gan throwe, And wolcomyd hym with good entent.

The Cros in Chepe verrament, It was gret joy it for to beholde; It was araied full reverent, With a castell right as G.o.d wolde, With baners brighte beten with gold.

And angelys senssyd hym that tyde; With besaunts riche many a fold, They strowed oure kyng on every syde.

Virgynes out of the castell gon glyde, For joye of hym they were daunsyng, They knelyd a doun alle in that tyde, 'Nowell,' 'Nowell,' alle thei gon syng.

Unto Poules thanne rood oure kyng, XIIII bysshopes hym mette there right, The grete bellys thanne did they ryng, Upon his feet full faire he light.

And to the heighe auter he went right, 'Te Deum' for joye thanne thei gon syng; And there he offred to G.o.d almyght: And thanne to Westminster he wente withoute dwellyng.

In xv wokes forsothe, he wroughte al this, Conquered Harfleu and Agincourt; Crist brynge there soules all to blys, That in that day were mort.

Crist that is oure hevene kyng, His body and soule save and se; Now all Ingelond may say and syng, 'Blyssyd mote be the Trinite,'

This jornay have ye herd now alle be dene, The date of Crist I wot is was, A thousand foure hundred and fyftene.

_Gloria tibi Trinitas._

Harflu fert Mauric Augincourt p'lia Crispin.

P. 119. [A^{o} 10 Hen. VI.]--"John Welles, grocer, maior. This same yere, the xvj day of Decembre, G beynge the dominical lettre, kyng Herry the vj^{te} was crowned kyng of Fraunce at Parys, in the chirche of Notre Dame, with gret solempnite and rialte; and anoon after he turned ayen into Engelond, and landed at Dovorr the ix day of Feverer', and come to London the xxj day of the same month, where he was ryally resceyved, alle the craftes rydynge ayens hym, all in white."