They stare in disbelief;  
is this some form of trickery, is this a mirage?
What madness is this, they surely must be drunk.

From down the valley, the horsemen on the horizon grow,
The grape shot is loaded, the mouths of the cannon glow,
Be it on their own heads; the Cossacks happily re-load their guns,
A few more rounds lads and there’ll turn tail and run. 

The gunners’ ears are deafened, cordite burns their nose,
The cannons recoil madly, breaking careless bones,
Meanwhile the thunder of hooves grows louder,
Spurring them to nervously re-load their powder.

Glee turns to doubt, as the jagged cavalry line comes close,
What devils are these, that survive this burning hell,
They’ll soon be upon us;
the horsemen of the apocalypse have arose,
Quick now Cossacks, only time for one more shell. 

Too late now, the horses loom large,
Bursting through the smoke, making a terrifying charge,
A vengeful surging wave, that sweeps up everything in its path,
Stampeding through their lines, exacting their deadly wrath. 

With the Cherneya river at their back,
the Russians must drown or attack,
With courage re-charged, the Light Brigade they chase,
Now in the valley, it’s a life or death horse race. 

The Cossacks spur on their mounts, a glint in their eyes,
They seek to cut down Cardigan, the ultimate enemy prize,
In an exhausted frenzy, the Light Brigade escapes to friendly lines,
The Cossacks wheel around, with a chorus of exasperated sighs.

That night by campfire, they celebrate the magnificent fight,
They sell off the enemies’ horses, vodka helping to bid up the price,
Their singing and dancing, greets the fingers of rosy dawn,
The legend of the Cassocks, who defeated the Light Brigade is born!