His watch, on Balaklava's heights

The weary sentry kept,

In silence from Sebastopol

A host unnumbered crept;

And dimly in the fitful light

Their sable helmets gleamed,

While France and Briton's war-worn sons

In fancied safety dreamed.

Hark! hark! from yon remote redoubt —

There comes a stifled cry,

From men who tho' by numbers pressed

Knew bravely how to die.

And now the bugle's warning note

Rings out a summons clear!

'Up, up! — to horse!' the shout resounds

From vanguard to their rear!

Then hurriedly the order flew

Those dreadful guns to take,

Whose dreadful fire in that dark vale,

Did fearful havoc make;

The lion-hearted Cardigan,

With twice four hundred men,

Rushed on, a certain death to meet —

But they were valient men.

The Russian guns, on every side,

Did fierce destruction pour;

Through ranks of that devoted band,

The iron bullets tore.

All honour to the noble French

Who in the glorious fight,

With us, like brothers, side by side,

Subdued the Muscovite!

His Tartar hordes, like Autumn leaves,

Before Canrobert fell;

How Briton's fought at Inkerman,

The sons of France can tell!

Then weave a chaplet for their brows,

The lily and the bay;

May France and England ne'er forget

The glories of that day.