The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians,
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley ? and
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were riding by
When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky;
And he called ?Left wheel into line!? and they wheeled
Then he looked at the host that had halted he knew
And he turned half round and he bad his trumpeter
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved
To the gallant three hundred those glory will never
?Follow,? and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill,
Followed the Heavy Brigade.
The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might
of the fight!
Thousands of horsemen had gathered there on the
With a wing pushed out to the left, and a wing to the
And who shall escape if they close? but he dashed up
Through the great gray slope of men,
Swayed his sabre, and held his own
Like an Englishman there and then;
All in a moment followed with force
Three that were next in their fiery course,
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made?
Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill,
Galloped the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.
Fell like a cannonshot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crashed like a hurricane .
Broke through the mass from below,
Drove through the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and foe
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys
Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for a while from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the right,
And rolled them around like a cloud,?
O mad for the charge and the battle were we,
When our own good redcoats sank from sight,
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea,
And we turned to each other, whispering, whispering,
?Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett?s
?Lost one and all? were the words
Muttered in our dismay;
But they rode like Victors and Lords
Through the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode or they stood at bay?
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray?
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Staggered the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,
For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,
And the foeman surged, and wavered, and reeled
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,
And over the brow and away.
Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made!
Glory to all the three hundred, and to all the Brigade!