Original
Modern English
’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.
It’s certain he has crossed the river Somme.
And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
And if he isn’t fought with, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us leave everything And give our vineyards to a barbaric people.
O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters?
Oh, living God! will a few of us, The waste of our fathers’ indulgence, Our offspring, raised in wild and savage ways, Shoot up so suddenly into the sky, And look down on their creators?
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! Mort de ma vie! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! By my life! if they march without a fight, I’ll sell my dukedom, To buy a dirty, run-down farm On that miserable island of Albion.
Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle? Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull, On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! Poor we may call them in their native lords.
God of battles! where do they find this courage? Isn’t their weather foggy, cold, and dull, Where, as if in spite, the sun looks pale, Killing their crops with frowns? Can soaked water, A drink for worn-out horses, their barley gruel, Heat their cold blood to such brave courage? And should our quick blood, fired by wine, Appear cold? Oh, for the honor of our land, Let’s not hang like icy ropes On our roofs, while a colder people Sweat drops of youth and bravery in our rich fields! We might call them poor in their native lands.
By faith and honour, Our madams mock at us, and plainly say Our mettle is bred out and they will give Their bodies to the lust of English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors.
By faith and honor, Our ladies mock us, and plainly say Our courage is gone, and they will give Their bodies to the desires of English youth To refill France with bastard warriors.
They bid us to the English dancing-schools, And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos; Saying our grace is only in our heels, And that we are most lofty runaways.
They invite us to the English dance schools, And teach high dances and fast courants; Saying our grace is only in our feet, And that we are nothing but proud runaways.
Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence: Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri, Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg, Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights, For your great seats now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur: Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon: Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner.
Where is Montjoy the herald? Send him quickly: Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes! and with honor’s spirit, sharper Than your swords, hurry to the field: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and Berri, Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg, Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, For your great seats, rid yourselves of great shame. Stop Harry of England, who sweeps through our land With banners stained in the blood of Harfleur: Rush on his army, like melting snow Upon the valleys, which the Alps spit on, And empty their chill upon: Go down upon him, you have enough power, And bring him as a prisoner into Rouen.
This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march, For I am sure, when he shall see our army, He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear And for achievement offer us his ransom.
This suits the great. I’m sorry his forces are so few, His soldiers sick and starving in their march, For I’m sure, when he sees our army, He’ll be filled with fear And offer us his ransom.
Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy. And let him say to England that we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
Therefore, lord constable, hurry Montjoy. And tell him to ask England what ransom they’ll offer. Prince Dauphin, you will stay with us in Rouen.
Not so, I do beseech your majesty.
Not so, I beg you, your majesty.
Be patient, for you shall remain with us. Now forth, lord constable and princes all, And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.
Be patient, for you shall stay with us. Now go, lord constable, and all princes, And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.