Original
Modern English
Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter: Summon their general unto the wall.
Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter: Call their general to the wall.
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would: Open your city gates; Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours, And do him homage as obedient subjects; And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power: But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love.
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, He calls you, servants in arms to Harry, King of England; And this is what he wants: Open your city gates; Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours, And show him respect like obedient subjects; And I’ll pull back, taking my bloody power with me: But, if you reject this offered peace, You provoke the anger of my three followers, Hungry famine, ruthless steel, and raging fire; Who, in a moment, will bring down Your grand and towering buildings, If you turn down the offer of their mercy.
Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified And strong enough to issue out and fight: If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee: On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d, To wall thee from the liberty of flight; And no way canst thou turn thee for redress, But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass, that now begins to run, Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale and dead.
You ominous and terrifying owl of death, The terror of our nation and its bloody punishment! The end of your tyranny is near. You cannot get through to us except by death; For, I swear, we are well defended And strong enough to fight back: If you retreat, the Dauphin, well-prepared, Waits with his traps of war to catch you: On both sides of you, there are armies ready, To block your escape route; And there is no way for you to turn for help, But death confronts you with obvious destruction And pale ruin stares you in the face. Ten thousand French have taken an oath To unleash their deadly artillery On no soul but English Talbot. Look at you, standing there, a brave man alive, With an unconquerable spirit! This is the last praise I give you, As your enemy: For before the hourglass runs out, And the sand finishes falling, These eyes, that now see you full of life, Will see you withered, bloody, pale, and dead.
Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.
Listen! Listen! The Dauphin’s drum, a warning sound, Plays a sad tune for your fearful soul; And mine will ring out your dreadful departure.
He fables not; I hear the enemy: Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park’d and bounded in a pale, A little herd of England’s timorous deer, Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay: Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight!
He’s not lying; I hear the enemy: Out, some light horsemen, and check their flanks. Oh, careless and thoughtless discipline! How have we been penned in and trapped, Like a small herd of England’s frightened deer, Lost in a pack of yapping French dogs! If we are English deer, let us bleed for it; Not like weaklings, to fall down with a slight blow, But like mad, desperate stags, Turn and fight the bloody hounds with sharp horns And force the cowards to retreat: Let every man sell his life as dearly as mine, And they’ll find us hard to kill, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s cause, Bless our banners in this dangerous battle!