John Betjeman writes The Charge of the Light Brigade
It’s half a league on, it’s half a league on,
Thundering, blundering into the sun.
There are cannon to left of us, cannon to right,
Cannon in front of us – not a fair fight!
We rode to this valley, six hundred in all,
But Oh! it’s a certainty most men will fall.
“Forward the Light Brigade!” somebody shouted.
Importunate band! We are sure to be routed.
It isn’t our place to enquire of ‘them’, Why?
It’s theirs but to do and it’s ours but to die!
Noble six hundred! We’ll all soon be dead
from the ominous, ominous fighting ahead.
Oh! Who would have thought it, that some would survive?
The luckiest pluckiest few are alive.
What cheeriness, knowing my death’s been delayed,
And now I’ve resigned from the damned Light Brigade.
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