With shot and shell, like a loosened hell,
Smiting them left and right,
They rise or fall on the sloping wall
Of beetling bush and height!
They do not shrink at the awful brink
Of the rifle’s hurtling breath,
But onward press, as their ranks grow less,
To the open arms of death!
Through a storm of lead, o’er maimed and dead,
Onward and up they go,
Till hand to hand the unflinching band
Grapple the stubborn foe.
O’er men that reel, ’mid glint of steel,
Bellow or boom of gun,
They leap and shout over each redoubt
Till the final trench is won!
O charge sublime! Over dust and grime
Each hero hurls his name
In shot or shell, like a molten hell,
To the topmost heights of fame!
And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff,
Wounded or dead men lie,
While the tropic sun on a grand deed done
Looks with his piercing eye!