A chronicle of London, from 1089 to 1483; written in the fifteenth century, and for the first time printed from mss. in the British museum: to which are added numerous contemporary illustrations, consisting of royal letters, poems, and other articles descriptive of public events, or of the manners and customs of the metropolis.

A POEM BY JOHN LYDGATE, MONK OF BURY, DESCRIBING THE EXPEDITION OF HENRY THE FIFTH INTO FRANCE IN 1415, THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT, AND THE KING'S RECEPTION INTO LONDON ON HIS RETURN.

[Harl. MSS. 565.]

GOD that all this world gan make And dyed for us on a tre, Save Ingelond for Mary sake, Sothfast God in Trinyte; And kepe oure kyng that is so free, That is gracious and good with all, And graunt hym evermore the gree, Curteys Crist oure kynge ryall.

Oure kyng sente into France ful rathe, Hys bassatours bothe faire and free; His owne right for to have, That is, Gyan and Normande; He bad delyvre that his schulde be, All that oughte kyng Edward, Or ellys tell hym certeynle, He itt gette with dynt of swerd. Wot ye right well that thus it was, Gloria tibi Trinitas.

And than answerde the dolfyn bold To oure bassatours sone ageyn, Me thinke youre kyng he is nought old, No werrys for to maynteyn; Grete well youre kyng, he seyde, so yonge That is bothe gentill and small; A tonne of tenys ballys I shall hym sende, For to pleye hym with all. Wot ye right well, &c.

A dien Sire, seide oure lordis alle, For there they wolde no longer lende: They token there leve, bothe grete and smalle, And hom to Ingelond they gum wende; And thanne they sette the tale on ende, All that the Dolfyn to them gon say; I schal hym thanke thanne, seyde our kynge, Be the grace of God if that y may. Wot ye right well, &c.

The kyng of Fraunce that is so old, Onto oure kyng he sente on hy, And prayde trews that he wolde hold For the love of seynt Mary. Oure Cherlys of Fraunce gret well, or ye wende, The Dolfyn prowed withinne his wall, Swyche tenys ballys I schal hym sende As schall tere the roof all of his all, Wot ye right well, &c.

Oure kyng ordeyned with all his myght, For to amende that is amys, And that is all for Engelond ryght, To geten agen that scholde ben his; That is, al Normandie forsothe y wys, Be right of eritage he scholde it have, Therof he seith he wyll nought mys, Crist kepe his body sounde and save. Wot ye right well, &c.

Oure kyng at Westmenster he lay, And his bretheren everych on; And other many lordes that is no nay, The kyng to them seyde anon, To Fraunce y thenke to take the way, Sires, he seyde, be swete seynt John; Of good counsaill y will yow pray, Wat is youre will what y shall don? Wot ye right well, &c.

The duk of Clarence, thanne seyd he, My lord it is my right full will, And other lordys right manye, We hold it right reson and skyll, To Fraunce we wolde yow redy bryng, With gladder will than we kon say. Gramercy, sires, seide our kyng, I schall yow qwyte if that y may. Wot ye right well, &c.

I warne yow he seyde bothe olde and yonge, Make yow redy withoughte delay; At Southampton to mete youre kynge, At Lammas on seynt Petrys day; Be the grace of God ant swete Mary Over the see y thenke to passe: The kyng let ordeyn sone in hy, What y mene ye knowe the casse. Wot ye right well, &c.

After anon, with right good chere, Hyse gret gonnys and engynes stronge, At London he schipped them alle in fere, And sone fro Westmenster then sprongye, With alle hyse lordys, sothe to saye: The mair was redy and mette hym there, With all the craftes in good araye, It is ful soth what nede to swere. Wot ye right well, &c.

Heyl, comely kyng, the mair gan say, The grace of God now be with the, And speed the well in thy jornay, Almyghti God in Trinite, And graunt the evermore the degre, To felle thin enemys bothe nyght and day; Amen, seyde alle the comunalte, Graunt mercy, sire, oure kyng gan say. Wot ye right well, &c.

To seynt Poulys he held the way; He offred there full worthyly: Fro thens to the quen that same day, And tok his leve ful hendely; And thorugh out London thanne gan he ryde; To seynt George he com in hye, And there he offred that iche tyde, And other lordys that weren hym bye. Wot ye right well, &c.

And fro thens to Suhthampton, unto that strond, For sothe he wold no longer there dwell: XV hundryd shippys redy there he fond, With riche sayles and heye topcastell. Lordys of this lond, oure kyng gan there sell, For a milion of gold as y herd say, Therfore there truayle was quyte them full well, For they wolde a mad a queynte aray. Wot ye right well, &c.

Therfore song it was wailaway; There lyvys they lost anon right in hast: And oure kyng with riall aray, To the se he past. And landyd in Normandye, at the water of Sayn, At the pyle of Ketecaus, the sothe y yow say, On oure lady even, the assumpcion, the thirdde yer of hys rayn, And boldely hys baner there he gan display. Wot ye right well, &c.

And to the town of Harflew there he tok the way, And mustred his meyne faire before the town, And many other lordys I dar well say, With baners brighte and many penoun: And there they pyght there tentys a down, That were embroudyd with armys gay; First, the kynges tente with the crown, And all othere lordes in good aray. Wot ye right well, &c.

My brother Clarence, oure kyng gan say, The tother syde shull ye kepe, With my doughter and hire maydyns gay, To wake the Frensshmen of there slepe. London he seyde shall with here mete, My gonnys shall lyn upon this grene, For they shall play with Harflete, A game at tynes as y wene. Wot ye right well, &c.

Mine engynes that bethe so kene, They shull be sett be syde this hill, Over all Harflewe that they may sene, For to loke if they play well. Go we to game be Godys grace, Myne children ben redy everych on, Every greet gonne that there was, In his mouth he hadde a ston. Wot ye right well, &c.

The Capteyn of Harflewe sone anon To oure kyng he sente on hy, To wyte what was his wille to don That he was come with his navy; Delivere me this toune, oure kyng gan say; Nay sire, he seyde, be seynt Denys; Thanne shall y it gete, if y may, Be the grace of God and myn devys. Wot ye right well, &c.

Myne pleyers that y have hedyr brought, Their ballys beth of stonys round, Be the helpe of hym that me dere bought, They shall youre wall have to ground. The Frensshmen cried 'Amound,' 'Amound;' This toun, they seyde, us moste kepe. The kyng, seith he, will nought fro this grour Or he have yolde this toun Harflete. Wot ye right well, &c.

Tenys seyde the grete gonne, How felawes go we to game, Among the houses of Harflewe roune, It dide the Frensshmen right gret grame; Fyftene before, seyd London, tho His ball wol faire he gan it throwe, That the stepyll of Harflete and bellys also, With his breth he dide down blowe. Wot ye right well, &c.

XXX^ti is myn, seyd Messagere, And smartly went his way; Ther wallys that were mad right sure, He brast them down the sothe to say. The kynges doughter, seyde here, how thei p Herkenyth myne maydenys in this tyde; Fyve and forty that is no nay, The wallys wente doun on every syde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The engynes seide, to longe we abyde, Let us gon to ben on assent; Wherevere that the ball gan glyde, The houses of Harflew they all to rent. An Englyssh man the bulwerk brent, Women cryed alas! that they were bore, The Frensshmen seide now be we shent, From us this toun now it is lore. Wot ye right well, &c.

It is best now that we therfore, That we beseche the kyng of grace, That he asayle us now no more, For to dystroye us in this place; For but the Dolfyn us reskewe, This toun to delivere wyl we sikerly, Messagers thei let make newe, And to the kyng they come in hy. Wot ye right well, &c.

The lord Gaucourt certeynly, For he was capteyn in that place, And Gilliam Bocher com hym by, And othere also bothe more and lasse; To fore the kyng whan they com was, I wot they sette them on there kne; Heil comely kyng, thei seyde, in this plas, The grace of God now is with the. Wot ye right well, &c.

Of trews we wolde beseche the, Unto it be Sounday atte non, And but it thanne reskewyd be, We shall to yow delyvere this toun: The kyng thanne seyde to them ful son I graunte you grace al this tyde, Somme of yow go forth anon, The remenaunt with me shall abyde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The capteyn hied hym with al his myght, Unto Roon for to ryde, He wende the Dolfyn have founde there right But he was goon, durst he nought abyde. Of helpe the capteyn besowte that tyde, Harflew from us is lost for ay, The wallys ben doun on every syde, We may no longere it kepe, be God verray. Wot ye right well, &c.

Of good counsaill I wolde yow pray, What is youre will what shall y don, Bataill us moste thene be Soneday, Or ellys delivere hym the toun. The lordys of Roon togydere gon rown, And bad he sholde the town up yelde, The kyng of Ingelond is fers as lyon, We wil noughte mete hym in the felde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The capteyn went agen withoute lettyng, Before the kyng on kneys gan fall, Heyl, he seyde, comely kyng, Most worthy prynce in this world riall, Here y have brought yow the keyes alle, Of Harflew that faire toun, All is youre owne both towr and halle, At your will Lord and at your croun. Wot ye right well, &c.

I thanke God, thann eseyde oure kyng, And Mary his modir that is so fre; Myn uncle Dorset withoute lettyng, Capteyn of Harflewe schall ye be. And al that is in that toun, Wot stille shall abyde, To maken up that is adoun, That hath ben fellyd on every syde. Wot ye right well, &c.

Meyne, I now shall with yow ride, To se the toun there overall, Wyff no child lett non abyde, But have them ought bothe grete and small; And let stuffe the toun overall, With Englysshmen thereinne to be. They left no Frenssh blod withinne the wall, But hadde all oute the comunalte. Wot ye right well, &c.

Four hundred women and children men myght se, Whanne they wenten out sore gon they wepe; The grete gonnes engynes to the trewle, They were brought into Harflete, Oure kyng unto the castell yede, And restyd hym there as his will was Sire, he seyde, so God me spede To Caleys warde I thenke to pas Wot ye right well that thus it was, Gloria tibi Trinitas.

PASSUS SECUNDUS.

Whanne Harflete was getyn, that ryall tour Through the grace of God omnipotent; Oure kyng he made hym redy bown, And to Caleys ward full faire he went, My brother Clarence verament, Ye shall ryde al be my syde, My cosyn York ye take entent, For ye shall also this tyde. Wot ye right well, &c.

My cosyn Huntyngdon shall with me ryde, The erl of Suffolk that is so fre, The erl of Oxenford shall not abyde, He shall comen forth with his meyne, Sire Thomas Erpyngham, that nevere dide faille, And yit another so mote y thee, Sire John the knyght of Cornewaille, He dar abyde and that know yee. Wot ye right well, &c.

Sire Gilbert Umfreville wil us avayle, The lord Clyfford so God me spede, Sire William Boucer that will not faille, They will us helpe when we hav nede. Toward Caleys full faire they yede, In the cuntrey of Picardie, And out of Normandie they gan ryde, Now Crist save all the cumpanye. Wot ye right well, &c.

Our kyng rood forth, blessed he be, He sparid neither dale ne doun, Be townes grete, and castell hyghe, Til he com to the water of Som; The brigge the Frensshemen hadde drawe a doun, That over the water he myght nought ryde; Oure kyng made hym redy bown, And to the water of Turwyn he com that tyde. Wot ye right well, &c.

Oure kyng rood forth thanne full good sped, Into the countrey of Turvyle, To Agyncourt now as he is ride, There as oure kyng dyd his bataile; Be the water of Swerdys withoute faile, The Frensshemen oure kyng thei did aspye, And there they thought him to asaile, All in that feld certeynlye. Wot ye right well, &c.

The Frensshemen hadde oure kynge umbast With bataill strong on every syde; The duke of Orlions seyde in hast, The kyng of Ingelond with us shall byde; He gaf hym leve this way to ryde, Be God, me thenke, he was not wys, Therefore shall y now be hys gyde, Or that he come to strong Caleys. Wot ye right well, &c.

The duke of Braban answerd then, And seyde, be God 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 mochell of pryde, Be God, 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 Godys 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 God it is good tyme, For alle the seyntes that lyn in shryne, To God for us they be praieng; The religious of Ingelond all benynge, 'Ora pro nobis' 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 bassonet 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 Devenshire 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 God 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.

PASSUS TERCIUS.

And there he restyd verrament, At his owne will whilys that it was, And shipped 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 God 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, Goddys 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.' goddes 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 God 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 God 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.