Post by Artemis on Apr 21, 2009 11:18:04 GMT -5
The battle of Agincourt
Candlelight flickered, bemoaning winds wailed,
Thoughts rested on her troubled, furrowed brow;
Young and virginal, ghostlike she paled.
Eager was she to please king and France now.
Moping by flickering flame she sat, restless.
Battle was imminent, days here long,
Twas a maidens duty to remain feckless
Whilst the men fought hard, weary but strong.
A lone moth fluttered to the candles flame,
Her mind was distracted whilst she observed.
Idly she wondered if it she could tame
As it flew to her finger quite unnerved!
A sign of strength and hope, she set it free
Through an open window it flew gratefully.
That night Henry sat head in hands lonely.
This battle made him weary in Calais.
Forced back once, now raging he could see
No way forward for yet another long day.
September was cold, his men falling like flies.
Illness swept through them hope was fading fast.
The French, he thought, heading for their demise.
Somehow the bridge at Somme would be passed.
As the fires faded embers turned to nil,
A moth sprang from nowhere in front of his eyes.
He put out his, it rested quite still,
Determination took him by surprise.
He set the moth free to the inky blue sky
Gathered his men, just let anyone defy!
His men gathered quick to be cleansed of sin,
A blood bath ensued, the morrow brought death.
Fear clouded the weary and the maudlin,
Knowing this battle could see their last breath!
Little did they know the French were doomed;
Vast numbers let down by their protection!
So ‘twas in vein that they did greatly assume
Victory was theirs for the collection.
The battle loomed, the men sorely prepared;
Facing their enemy almost tenfold.
Fear on both sides was equally shared,
Men and horses seeming falsely too bold.
Arrows flew high, landed square and killed,
So much blood on Agincourt was spilled.
The battlefield turned into rivers of mud,
The French were slow in armour too heavy.
Bowmen and archers struck down when they could,
The loss of the French in the end was plenty.
They retreated with few, England had slain,
Henry outnumbered had defeated, they’d paid.
France would never deny him again.
St Crispin had been on his side this day.
Months of talking would grant him his choice,
The Treaty of Troyes saw him fit to be wed
The French kings daughter Catherine of Valois,
So his beautiful queen could come to his bed.
So victory in battle for land and for pride,
Our king saved the day with great luck on his side.
Neither had remembered the tale of the moth
The fireside meeting, the candle lit room.
One night they both saw it atop some cloth,
Then repeated their stories, the queen did swoon!
Soon she found out she was carrying his child,
A son they both wanted and were blessed so.
Both king and son shared the same manner mild ,
And where the king went his boy would follow.
This king invented the passport for travels,
Worked very hard in historians eyes;
A story of this great Briton unravels
He fell in battle to his early demise.
A great king he was, one of our very best!
He was a brave soul, a hero I do not jest.
Isobelle
Copyright ©2009kerryguthrie
Candlelight flickered, bemoaning winds wailed,
Thoughts rested on her troubled, furrowed brow;
Young and virginal, ghostlike she paled.
Eager was she to please king and France now.
Moping by flickering flame she sat, restless.
Battle was imminent, days here long,
Twas a maidens duty to remain feckless
Whilst the men fought hard, weary but strong.
A lone moth fluttered to the candles flame,
Her mind was distracted whilst she observed.
Idly she wondered if it she could tame
As it flew to her finger quite unnerved!
A sign of strength and hope, she set it free
Through an open window it flew gratefully.
That night Henry sat head in hands lonely.
This battle made him weary in Calais.
Forced back once, now raging he could see
No way forward for yet another long day.
September was cold, his men falling like flies.
Illness swept through them hope was fading fast.
The French, he thought, heading for their demise.
Somehow the bridge at Somme would be passed.
As the fires faded embers turned to nil,
A moth sprang from nowhere in front of his eyes.
He put out his, it rested quite still,
Determination took him by surprise.
He set the moth free to the inky blue sky
Gathered his men, just let anyone defy!
His men gathered quick to be cleansed of sin,
A blood bath ensued, the morrow brought death.
Fear clouded the weary and the maudlin,
Knowing this battle could see their last breath!
Little did they know the French were doomed;
Vast numbers let down by their protection!
So ‘twas in vein that they did greatly assume
Victory was theirs for the collection.
The battle loomed, the men sorely prepared;
Facing their enemy almost tenfold.
Fear on both sides was equally shared,
Men and horses seeming falsely too bold.
Arrows flew high, landed square and killed,
So much blood on Agincourt was spilled.
The battlefield turned into rivers of mud,
The French were slow in armour too heavy.
Bowmen and archers struck down when they could,
The loss of the French in the end was plenty.
They retreated with few, England had slain,
Henry outnumbered had defeated, they’d paid.
France would never deny him again.
St Crispin had been on his side this day.
Months of talking would grant him his choice,
The Treaty of Troyes saw him fit to be wed
The French kings daughter Catherine of Valois,
So his beautiful queen could come to his bed.
So victory in battle for land and for pride,
Our king saved the day with great luck on his side.
Neither had remembered the tale of the moth
The fireside meeting, the candle lit room.
One night they both saw it atop some cloth,
Then repeated their stories, the queen did swoon!
Soon she found out she was carrying his child,
A son they both wanted and were blessed so.
Both king and son shared the same manner mild ,
And where the king went his boy would follow.
This king invented the passport for travels,
Worked very hard in historians eyes;
A story of this great Briton unravels
He fell in battle to his early demise.
A great king he was, one of our very best!
He was a brave soul, a hero I do not jest.
Isobelle
Copyright ©2009kerryguthrie