I

BALACLAVA! let the name

Sound through all the lists of Fame,

Let it on the banner flame,

And on story's pages;

Talk no more of old Romance,

How the warhorse used to prance,

How the Knight would couch his lance

In the distant ages.

II

Tell not of Thermopylae,

Of the World's greet infancy

Glorious as the dead may be,

Men as brave are living:

Generations drop like leaves,

But the World no change perceives;

Providence the pest retrieves,

Brighter promise giving.

III

Hark! the trumpet sounds from far,

Quick the charger scents the war,

Either eye-bull like a star

At the aspect bright'ning;

How he paws the mountain-sod,

Trading as if air he trod,

While his hoof seem thunder-shod,

Wreathed his mane with lightning!

IV

Curb him — launch the bolt not yet,

The first shock on foot is met;

And we shall not soon forget

Who that charge confronted:

Ainslie bade the fore-rank kneel,

Stands the next a wall of steel,

Back the Russian squadrons reel,

Though ten-told they counted.

V

But they rally for the charge,

Like the waves on Ocean's marge,

Beaten hack to roll up large

From the waters under:

So that multitude of horse

Gather'd all its hidden force,

Whirling onward in its course

With a sound of thunder.

VI

But our trumpets peal at last,

When, like a tornado-blast,

Grey and Enniskillen pass'd,

And the ground seem'd crashing;

Every man of giant mould,

Chargers like the breeds of old,

Oh! it made the blood run cold

To see their broad-swords flashing.

VII

Now they meet the advancing foe,

One to ten, yet blow for blow,

Through the broken ranks they go,

Ghastly traces leaving;

Through the maze of glimmering spears

Rush those stalwart cavaliers,

Onward still with deafening cheer!

Their red pathway cleaving.

VIII

Lost they seem — but short suspense,

Back along that finest dense

Soon again they tower immense,

High their broadswords gleaming;

On their furious chargers foam,

As if Richard led they come,

Like old Knights of Christendom,

With the Red-Cross streaming.

IX

"Guards and Royals, now your turn!"

Said an accent loud and stern;

Soon their swords fresh laurels earn,

Loud as joy-bells pealing:

Oh! the chinks each ringing blade

In the Calmuck helmets made;

Streaks the Cossack hacks display'd

Leech will long take healing.

X

Scarlett's weightier work is done,

And Lord Lucan's just begun;

Plain the peril none would shun,

Too superbly daring!

Where the belching batteries flame

Lance and sabre boldly aim;

Meaner seems all other game,

Hardly worth the sharing.

XI

Oh! that brilliant Light Brigade!

Oh! that none was near to aid!

Oh! the wreck the cannon made

Of their peerless beauty!

Yet well done, Lord Cardigan!

You have shown yourself a man,

Proving what our English can

For honour and for duty.

XII

Round that small devoted band

Foes ten thousand bristling stand;

Then was heard a fiend's command —

Foul promiscuous murder!

Shot and shell the clangor drown,

Friend and foe alike go down,

Cursing, as their fierce eyes frown,

Him who gave the order.

XIII

Bathed in blood young Nolan's horse

Homeward bore an upright corse,

And still seem'd to feel the spurs,

Coming fast and faster:

But where thick the slain were piled,

Steeds in herds were bounding wild;

One there was, with aspect mild,

Gazing on its master.

XIV

Stem Lord Raglan saw and sigh'd,

Canrobert, with martial pride,

Watch'd them as they rode and died,

Nor conceal'd his sorrow;

Both camps cheer'd them like a chime,

Each man said it was sublime,

But all mourn'd at even-time,

And vow'd revenge to-morrow.