battle rose.
Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power,
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,
The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill.
And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on
horde.

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came--
The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame!
Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went
past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast;
And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime
As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time.
On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone,
As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne.
On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell--
Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.

Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair
On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there!
But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood,
A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood:
The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red--
See! save them, they're surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead,
And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride
Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried--
The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride!
Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

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 th