No thought hadst thou, so calm and light, Of war or battle plain, But on thy broad fields, waving bright, Didst mow the golden grain, With clashing sickles, wreaths of corn, Thy sheaves didst garner in, When, hark!

For a month Edward marched his army over Normandy, "finding on his road," says Froissart, "the country fat and plenteous in everything, the garners full of corn, the houses full of all manner of riches, carriages, wagons and horses, swine, ewes, wethers, and the finest oxen in the world."