King Henry The Fifth's Conquest of France


A king was sitting on his throne,
And on his throne was sitting he;
He bethought himself of a tribute due,
Been due in France so many years.

Then he called up his little page,
His little page then called he;
Saying, "You must go to the king of France
And demand that tribute due to me."

Away, away went that little page,
Away, away and away went he,
Until he came to the king of France,
Then he fell down on his bended knee.

My master's great as well as you,
My master's great as well as you;
He demands that tribute, tribute due,
Or in French land you will him see.

Your master's young, of tender age,
Nor fit to come to my degree;
To him I send five tennis balls,
That in French land he dare not be.

Away, away went that little page,
Away, away and away went he,
Until he came to his master dear,
Then he fell down on his bended knee.

What news, what news, my little page
What news, what news do you bring to me?
Such news, such news, my master dear
The king and you will not agree.

He says you're young, of tender age,
Not fit to come to his degree;
To you he sends five tennis balls,
That in French land you dare not be.

The king he numbered up his men,
One by two and two by three,
Until he got thirty thousand men,
A noble jolly bold company.

No married men, no widow's son,
No married men can follow me;
No married men, no widow's son,
A widow's son can't follow me.

Now he's marched off to the King of France
With drums and trumpets so merrily
And the first that spoke was the King of France
Saying, "Yonder comes proud King Henry"

The first broadside those Frenchmen gave
They slew our men so bitterly;
And the next broadside our English gave
They killed five thousand and thirty-three.

And the next that spoke was the King of France
With drums and trumpets so merrily,
Saying: "Lord, have mercy on my men and me,
For the flower of France is gone today."

Now if you'll march back from whence you came
With drums and trumpets so merrily,
With the finest flower in all French land,
Five tons of gold shall be your fee.

Now he's marched back from whence he came
With drums and trumpets so merrily
With the finest flower in all French land
Five tons of gold now is his fee.

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