Too late for St. Crispin's Day

. . . and too early for Christmas. Marna Nightingale commits The Ballad of Agincourt Carol, Sweetheart of the Regiment:

T'was the Eve of St Crispan, and all through the camp
The soldiers were surly, and drunken, and damp.
The English waxed valiant in spite of their cares,
In hopes that the victory soon would be theirs.
The Frenchmen were bragging all safe in their tents
Of horses and women and ransoms they'd spent.
And good Thomas Erpingham, an old man and grey
Lay contented on turf and awaited fair day.
But out in the camp where Fluellen stood preaching.
King Henry was prowling for the common man's teaching —
Humble "Harry Le Roy" he gave as his name,
To escape from his station, to hide from his fame.
He walked 'mongst his men, though there's no doubt they stank,
And disputed theology, warfare and rank.
And then, as great monarchs have done through the ages
He stepped to one side, and he whinged — for three pages!

[. . .]