English Poetry: The Charge Of The Light Brigade

It's that time again - time for another dollop of English culture. I don't know if you enjoy these posts or not, but it was this stirring anthem that first got me interested in poetry when I was a kid at junior school. I doubt whether they cover such things at junior or even senior school anymore. They're more likely to learn some dull multiculti dirge as part of "Black History Month" written to celebrate "diversity" than they are a classic English poem. Mention Tennyson to most kids and they'll think you're talking about Helen Mirren in "Prime Suspect". The daft thing is, they will probably all be familiar with, and use phrases like "ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die" without having the foggiest where it came from.

Ain't education grand.

Ah, well. Enjoy.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said;
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
’Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder‘d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred Tennyson, 1809 - 1892