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NOTE.--The Battle of Balaklava, in which the charge commemorated by Tennyson in this poem occurred, was one of the important engagements of the Crimean War, between Russia on the one hand and Turkey, France and England on the other. The battle was fought on October 25th, 1854. Through some error in issuing orders, a brigade of six hundred light cavalry, under Lord Cardigan, was ordered to advance against the Russian center. The numbers of the enemy were overwhelming, and but a remnant of the brigade returned alive.
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: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs 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 sh.e.l.l, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of h.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of h.e.l.l, 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.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade, n.o.ble six hundred.
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
_By_ ROBERT BURNS
Is there, for honest poverty, Wha[149-1] hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pa.s.s him by, We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd[149-2] for a' that!
What though on hamely[149-3] fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray,[149-4] and a' that; Gie[149-5] fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show and a' that; The honest man though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie,[150-6] ca'd[150-7] a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds wors.h.i.+p at his word He's but a coof[150-8] for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that, His ribbon, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon[150-9] his might, Guid faith, he mauna[150-10] fa'[150-11] that!
For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a' that-- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree,[150-12] and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, When man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that!
FOOTNOTES:
[149-1] _Wha_ is the Scotch form of _who_. It modifies _a man_, understood, after _is there_.
[149-2] _Gowd_ means _gold_.
[149-3] _Hamely_ means _homely_, in the sense of _simple_, or _common_.
[149-4] Hodden-gray is coa.r.s.e woolen cloth.
[149-5] _Gie_ is the Scotch contraction for _give_.
[150-6] A birkie is a conceited, forward fellow.
[150-7] _Ca'd_ is a contracted form of _called_.
[150-8] A coof is a stupid person, a blockhead.
[150-9] _Aboon_ means above.
[150-10] _Mauna_ is _must not_.
[150-11] _Fa_' means _try_.
[150-12] _Bear the gree_ means _carry off the victory_.
BREATHES THERE THE MAN
_By_ SIR WALTER SCOTT
Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his t.i.tles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those t.i.tles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
_By_ WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
