document.write("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.<br /><br />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 !<br /><br />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, \\\"Let us go to the man who writes<br />The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.\\\"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />They strove to stand to attention, to straighen 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.<br /><br />The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and \\\"Beggin\\\' your pardon,\\\" he said,<br />\\\"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.<br /><br />\\\"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.\\\"<br /><br />The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.<br />And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with \\\"the scorn of scorn.\\\"<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.<br /><br />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 \\\"honour the charge they made - \\\"<br />And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!");