The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade!
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians,
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valleyand stayd;
For Scarlett and Scarletts three hundred were riding by
When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky;
And he calld, Left wheel into line! and they wheeld and obeyd.
Then he lookd at the host that had halted he knew not why,
And he turnd half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade
To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die
Follow, and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill,
Followd the Heavy Brigade.
The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight!
Thousands of horsemen had gatherd there on the height,
With a wing pushd out to the left and a wing to the right,
And who shall escape if they close? but he dashd up alone
Thro the great gray slope of men,
Swayd his sabre, and held his own
Like an Englishman there and then.
All in a moment followd with force
Three that were next in their fiery course,
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse,
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 cannon-shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crashd like a hurricane,
Broke thro the mass from below,
Drove thro the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
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 rolld 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 turnd to each other, whispering, all dismayd,
Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarletts Brigade!
Lost one and all were the words
Mutterd in our dismay;
But they rode like victors and lords
Thro 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
Staggerd 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 waverd, and reeld
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 all the Brigade!