The Last of the Light
Brigade
By Rudyard Kipling
First published in St James’ Gazette, April 28,
1890; first collected in the Inclusive Edition of Rudyard Kipling’s
Verse, 1919.
There
were thirty million English who talked of
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
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.
O
thirty million English that babble of
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!
This
work published before January 1, 1923 is in the public domain worldwide because
the author died at least 100 years ago.
Version
1.2, November 2002
Copyright
© 2000,2001,2002 Free Software Foundation Inc.
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