By Rudyard Kipling
There were
thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were
twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had
neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were
only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt
that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though
they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked
for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the
thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !
They laid
their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were
the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old
Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things
on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
They went
without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for
the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting
his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate
little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove
to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled
on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With
stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They
shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old
Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You
wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all
come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're
all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No,
thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of
'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think
that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we
were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
The poor
little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the
heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote
for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the
fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang
from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they
housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when
felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last
of the Light Brigade.
O thirty
million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there
are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our
children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave
to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
