有三千万英国人在谈论英国的强大，有二十名受伤的士兵缺一张过夜的床。他们既没有食物也没有钱，既没有服务也没有贸易;他们不过是些无能的士兵，是轻旅的最后一批。他们觉得生命转瞬即逝;他们不知道艺术是永恒的，他们虽然饿死，却活在不朽的歌声中。他们要了一点钱以维持生计;三千万英国人送来了二十镑四先令!他们把头靠在一起，脸上有疤痕，有皱纹，头发发白;俄国人的军刀锋利，但匮乏比它们更锋利;一个老军士嘟囔着说:“我们去找写巴拉克拉瓦的人吧，学校里的孩子们背诵的那些东西。” 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 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!