Onward, right onward, gallant James, nor heed
The plunging prancers of a grease-heel’d breed.
Onward, our leader thro’ the tower-lit scenes
Of genial Froissart and of grave Commines.
Minisht by death, by sickness, and by pain,
Poictiers sends forth her glorious few again:
Again o’er pennons gay and hawberks bright
The sable armour shines in morning light:
And cries of triumph from the brave and true,
And those who best reward them, swell for you.