Oh, the charge at Balaklava!

Oh, that rash and fatal charge

Never was a fiercer, braver,

Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!

All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks,

Poured their dread destructive volumes

On the French and English ranks,

On the gallant allied ranks!

Earth and sky seemed rent asunder!

By the loud, incessant thunder!

When a strange but stern command —

Heedless, heedless, rash command —

Came to Lucan's little band —

Scarce six hundred men and horses

Of those vast contending forces: —

'England's lost unless you save her!

Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

Oh that rash and fatal charge.

On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian Eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell,

And their hordes, like howling beagles,

Dense and countless, round them yell!

Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,

Sweep the field in every quarter!

Never since the days of Jesus,

Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies —

Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies —

Float as erst at old Ramillies,

And beside them, lo! the Lion!

With her trophied cross is flying!

Glorious standards — shall they waver

On the fields of Balaklava?

No, by Heavens! at that command —

Sudden, rash, but stern command —

Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge,

On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play —

Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally,

Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli.

Down that gorge they swept away!

Down that new Thermopylae.

Flashing swords and helmets see!

Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws.

Heedless of their deadly power.

Press they without fear or pause, —

To the very cannon's jaws!

Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland

At the field of Roncesvalles.

Dashes down the fatal valley.

Dashes on the bolt of death.

Shouting with his latest breath.

"Charge them, gallants! do not waver.

Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

Oh that rash and fatal charge.

On the battle's bloody marge!

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder

Rend the little band asunder.

Steed and rider wildly screaming.

Screaming wildly, sink away:

Late so proudly, proudly gleaming.

Now but lifeless clods of clay. —

Now but bleeding clods of clay!

Never, since the days of Jesus,

Saw such sight the Chersonesus!

Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred,

Presses onward, onward, onward.

Till they storm the bloody pass, —

Till, like brave Leonidas,

Lo, they storm the deadly pass!

Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,

In that wild, shot — rended valley, —

Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, —

Awful pass at Balaklava!

Oh that rash and fatal charge.

On that battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,

Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,

Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,

Drive the feeble remnant back,

0'er their late heroic track!

Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,

Vain your struggies, brave Two Hundred!

Thrice your number lie asleep,

In that valley dark and deep.

Weak and wounded you retire

From that hurricane of fire; —

But no soldiers firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame,

Than the Knights of Balaklava, —

Honor to each hero's name!

Yet their country long shall mourn

For her ranks so rashly shorn

ln that fierce and fatal charge.

On the battle's bloody marge.

Alexander B. Meek.