Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves;

So this man's eyes are dim;Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched

There at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died; — Message or wish, may be ;Smooth the folds out and see.

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered.

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke.

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not — Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, Those that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade!
Noble six hundred.

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

JOHN PIERPONT.

STAND! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it ye who will!

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're afire,
And, before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come! and will ye quail?

Leaden rain and leaden hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!

Die we may and die we must;
But oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,

And the rocks shall raise their head

Of his deeds to tell!

THE NORMAN BATTLE-SONG.

ANONYMOUS.

Aux fils des preux! ye sons of fame!
Think of your fathers' ashes now!
Fight! for the honor of your name;

Fight! for your valiant sires laid low!

Aux fils des preux! red be your swords.
With many a crimson battle-stain !
Fight on! ye noble knights and lords,
Stay not to count the warlike slain!

Aux fils des preux! full many a heart
The silent prayer now, low, is breathing,
Who with fond hopes saw ye depart;

Fair hands the victor's crown are wreathing!