Original
Modern English
Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight. The regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescued thee from death.
Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight. The regent has broken his word with Talbot And left us to the fury of France and its sword. Where is John Talbot? Stop, and catch your breath; I gave you life and saved you from death.
O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gavest me first was lost and done, Till with thy warlike sword, despite of late, To my determined time thou gavest new date.
Oh, you are twice my father, and twice am I your son! The life you gave me was lost and gone, Until with your fighting sword, in spite of what happened recently, You gave me a new chance at life.
When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire, It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age, Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, And interchanging blows I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace Bespoke him thus; ’Contaminated, base And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:’ Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care, Art thou not weary, John? how dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age: By me they nothing gain an if I stay; ’Tis but the shortening of my life one day: In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame: All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are saved if thou wilt fly away.
When your sword struck fire from the Dauphin’s helmet, It filled your father’s heart with pride and desire For bold victory. Then, though age made you slow, You were stirred by youthful anger and warlike fury, And defeated Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy, And saved yourself from the pride of France. The furious bastard Orleans, who drew blood From you, my son, and took the honor of your first fight, I quickly confronted him, And after exchanging blows, I made him shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace I insulted him saying, ’I spill the tainted, low-born And misbegotten blood of yours, so weak and poor, Compared to my pure blood, Which you forced out of Talbot, my brave son:’ Then, intending to destroy the Bastard, he came to your aid. Speak, my son, your father’s concern, Are you not tired, John? How are you holding up? Will you leave the battle now, boy, and run, Now that you’ve been marked as the son of chivalry? Run, to avenge my death when I’m gone: The help of one is little to me. Oh, how foolish it is, as I know well, To risk our lives in one tiny boat! If I don’t die today by the French’s rage, Tomorrow I’ll die from old age: If I stay, they gain nothing; It’s just shortening my life by one more day: In you, your mother dies, our family name, My revenge, your youth, and England’s fame: All of these are at risk by you staying; All of these are saved if you fly away.
The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart: On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fail and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son: Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.
The sword of Orleans hasn’t made me suffer; But your words, they drain my heart of its life-blood: To use that dishonorable advantage, To save a worthless life and destroy great fame, Before young Talbot runs from old Talbot, Let the coward horse that carries me fall and die! And let me be like the common peasant boys of France, The objects of shame and misfortune! Surely, by all the glory you’ve earned, If I run away, I’m no son of Talbot: So don’t talk about running, it’s pointless; If I’m Talbot’s son, I’ll die at his feet.
Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet: If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side; And, commendable proved, let’s die in pride.
Then follow your desperate father, like Icarus, Your life is sweet to me: If you want to fight, fight by your father’s side; And, if you prove yourself worthy, let’s die with pride.