Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand!
We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand!
He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day.
We shout and charge together, and again, again, again
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain.
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat;
Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat.
And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus
We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!
From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun
Stood conquerors on Inkerman--our Soldiers' Battle won.
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain!
That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain!
We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain:
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain.
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight!
They fell in boyhood's comely bloom, and bravery's lusty pride;
But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down and
died.
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