Cardigan has stared death in the face,
Few men look the devil in the eye,
But he lives by God’s grace,
He stares blankly around and wonders why.

Blood and filth cake his hair,
Sang-froid is the order of the day,
In front of the men he walks without care,
But underneath is anger and dismay.

His ears still ring, from the sound of an exploding shell,
He steadies his shake, fingers stretched out still and taut,
Behind him is the carnage of the charge, men who did not return from hell,
He trudges towards his yacht, moored down in Balaklava port. 

Dinner is served, social conventions are upheld,
He pushes at his plate, the rare bloodied beef staring back,
A sanguine metaphor, for those the cannon felled,
His comrades uncork the champagne, to toast his daring.

General d’Allonville still cannot believe what happened this day,
C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre, he shakes his head,
Cardigan thanks the Frenchman, for the magnificent part they did play,
Without the Chasseurs d'Afrique, perhaps Cardigan would be dead. 

That night in his cabin, he thrashes and twists,
The hellish day is replayed in kaleidoscope red,
His mind and soul are wrapped in an impenetrable mist,
He seeks reprieve in his bottle and stumbles out of bed. 

Dawn brakes and he is gifted a new day,
The rays of life, revive his flagging spirit, 
He thanks Almighty Providence for not taking him away,
A tear comes to his eye, as he recollects,
the Balaklava heroes’ merit, on that field of death.