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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=511022" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Last of the Light Brigade</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,<br>There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.<br>They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;<br>They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,<br>That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.<br>They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;<br>And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;<br>Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;<br>And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, &quot;Let us go to the man who writes<br>The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,<br>To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;<br>And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,<br>A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;<br>They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;<br>With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,<br>They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and &quot;Beggin' your pardon,&quot; he said,<br>&quot;You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.<br>An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;<br>For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write<br>A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?<br>We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?<br>You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.<br>And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with &quot;the scorn of scorn.&quot;<br>And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,<br>Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O thirty million English that babble of England's might,<br>Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;<br>Our children's children are lisping to &quot;honour the charge they made-&quot;<br>And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rudyard+Kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=511022" data-title="The Last of the Light Brigade de Rudyard Kipling" data-description="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 ..."></div>
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