The Last of the Light Brigade

Another poetry reading - The Last of the Light Brigade by Rudyard Kipling, 1891.

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 toilbowed 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 who 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!

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[Breneric]

Before the last verse, Theres the Penultimate verse which were missed out : It goes 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.

[delbhoye]

Many thanks for adding that. Do you know if it was removed by Kipling himself? It isn't in the published version of the poem I have.

[napoleonbonarparte]

I think the last charger died in 1933, or sometime around then.  Not too bad; the charge was 1854!

[delbhoye]

Yeah, amazing to have survived an event like that and live to such a ripe old age, especially at a time when life expectancy was probably about 50.

[DieselBodine]

I thought ''Balaklava'' was a Greek food. Thanks for correcting my ignoramusness in these regards. Another fine reading from the ''King Of War Poetry!'' 8-)

[delbhoye]

A balaclava is a type of woolly headgear favoured by terrorists and armed robbers, tho! I'm thinking about doing some other poems but my London/Essex accent doesn't do 'em proper justice ... I just don't sound like Laurence Olivier ! :o)

[Balshazar1]

Reading this "Epitaff" makes me weep tears of rage because it reminds me of stories my grandparents told me. Six of my family died in France during WW1, and when it was over those that were left marched away to a land fit for heros to live in and got there in plenty of time for the great depression, then after serving in ranks again at soup kitchens those that survied fell in again for WW2.

Those that survived, like their forefathers, were treated with sublime disregard as usual. poor sods.

[captinbritish]

@napoleonbonarparte The last of the one died in 1927 he was called Edwin Hughes and he was from Wrexham in North wales.He was 96.

[dockavurzione]

@DieselBodine LOL, you were quite close though: baklavah is a delicious turkish/greek/lebanese pastry!

[sambo2566]

nothings changed old soldiers are still treated like shit

[rollindanny57]

On a grave stone in Dukinfield Cheshire The inscription reads " sounded the charge at Balaklava" and also mentions a few other campaigns.A think the old guy died around 1910.Will have a look again for his name and report back.

[Breneric]

This verse was considered controversial and was removed.

It was attributed to the St James Gazette, 28 April 1890.