12/3/2023 0 Comments Poem charge of the light brigade![]() O thirty million English that babble of England's might,īehold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame. The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.Īnd the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."Īnd he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame, We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how? "No, thank you, we don't want food, sir but couldn't you take an' writeĪ sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight? Here's all that isn't dead.Īn' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell įor we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an', we thought we'd call an' tell. The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said, They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade. With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed, They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back ![]() To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song Īnd, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,Ī desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade. They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong, ![]() ![]() The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites." Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they Īnd an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door Īnd the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four! That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song. They felt that life was fleeting they knew not that art was long, They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade. They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night. There were thirty million English who talked of England's might, Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! ' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! ' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
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