A halfkilometer, halfkilometer,
halfkilometer frontwise
in the unhill of Death
rided the six hundred.
“Frontwise, Lightbrig!
Frontmove for the guns!” he sayed.
In the unhill of Death
rided the six hundred.
“Frontwise, Lightbrig!”
Was a man unjoyed?
The fighter unminded
that someone uncorrected.
They unanswer,
they unask why,
they must do and die.
In the unhill of Death
rided the six hundred.
Big gun right them,
big gun left them,
big gun front them,
firing and noiseful.
Bullethitted they rided
goodwise and couragewise
in the jaws of death,
on the bloodful field
rided the six hundred.
Their bigknifes shined,
shined as they turned,
bigknifing the gunners,
running at an army
as the world thinked.
Inmiddle gunsmoke
they moved throughline.
The Eurasian enemy
backmoved from bigknife
doubleplusbreaked.
Then they backrided,
but not the six hundred.
Big gun right them,
big gun left them,
big gun back them,
firing and noiseful.
Bullethitted they fighted
doubleplusgoodwise
as horse and hero downed
and backgoed from the jaws of Death
and the bloodful field,
all that remained of them,
remained of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild frontmove they maked!
All the world thinked.
Love the frontmove they maked!
Love the Lightbrig!
Doubleplusgood six hundred!
