They hear the orders in disbelief, 
Nolan gestures in a broad sweep;
the guns down there,
No time for doubt, just a quick prayer,
This is it lads, England expects.

The Trumpeter sounds the Walk,
Orderly ranks head down the field,
Each man with his own thoughts; 
no one talks,
The Trumpeter sounds the Trot,
Lances and sabers flash forward. 

The measured pace turns to a canter,
The Light Brigade down that valley thunder,
Riders and horses crushed together,
Grape shot and cannister torture the air,
Dust and gravel flies everywhere.

Nolan turns and falls stone dead,
The fog of war crushes the men,
Blindly on they rush and charge,
The muzzles of the canon looming large,
Men and horses crumple and die;
under a hail of Russian lead. 

The fury of hell on the field alights,
Cut down like grass under the scythe,
Morgan jumps out of the jaws of death;
reaching the canons, gasping for dear breath,
A futile display of lance and spear.

The Cossacks and gunners cannot believe,
Who could survive that barrage of wreaths,
Yet on they come, leaping out of the smoke,
Those Cavalry men wearing an invincible crown,
Now for the Russians to be cut down. 

Wheeling back round, threes about,
Once again, the gauntlet of death they flout,
Those blessed survivors that cheated death,
Those heroes and horses of Balaklava.