Half a century behind us

Lies the day that ne'er shall fade,

Day when Balaclava's glory

Gleaned upon the Light Brigade.

"Half a league" in front the foemen

Massed in sullen order lay,

Miles it seemed, as our Six Hundred

Swooped down on their dense array.

As we rode to join the muster,

When the deady strife was o'er,

Thought we sadly of the comrades

Who with us shuld ride no more.

Round the guns we left them lying,

'Neath Crimean sod they rest,

Yet to-day their names are graven

In each faithful English breast.

Others too claim memory's honour

Who survived the direful fray,

Who with us, few years or many,

Met to keep that glrious dfay.

Fifty years are strewn with losses,

Age can tell of heroes slain,

Time has wrought as great a carnage

As grim Balaclava's pain.

Passed is he who road before us,

Calm, unflinching, to the strife,

Passed the trooper, who for country

Nobly risked his morn of life.

Yet, as, — when the sharp stern order,

"Close in!" rolled from rank to rank, -

Closed we, as the gaps grew wider,

Knee to knee and flank to flank;

[PB: Check punctuatation in original.]

So to-day more close we gather,

Dwell on faithful friendships past,

Mourn our dead; rest, peace, and glory,

Grant us, Lord, with them at last."

Dim the eye, then battle-lighted,

Dull the ear, the trumpet woke,

Nerveless is the arm and feeble

Or for lance or sabre stroke

Signs these that a louder Trumpet

Soon must sound the muster call,

When before the Great Commander

Answer make His soldiers all.

Yet shall England sooner perish,

In the dust her glory laid,

Than the fame shall be forgotten

Of her gallant Light Brigade.