I am writing a speech to inspire my whalers to hurl their harpoons as though it is their last day on earth. Picture us riding our flimsy boat across the wild waves in pursuit of a hundred-ton leviathan, when over the foam and salty spray I shout,
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day.
Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.