(T' Charge of T' Light Brigade.)
Alan Lavercombe
  T'were the twenty-fifth day of October
At the height of the Crimean War,
And our lot were fighting the Russians,
'Cos we 'adn't fought t' Russians before.

Now the story that I'm goin' to tell thee
Is about t' Charge of t' Light Brigade
At a place that were called Balaclava, you know,
Where all t' woolly 'elmets is made.

There, servin' 'is country, Bert Wainthrop,
And such a nice young man 'e were,
That if 'e 'ad not been a Trooper,
'E'd never 'ave learned 'ow to swear.

Bert fancied 'imself as a bugler,
And practised by night and by day,
But 'e'd spent most of t' war on the substitutes' bench
An' 'ad never been sent on to play.

'E'd practised 'Reveille' at half-one that mornin'
An' Lord Lucan 'ad give 'im the sack,
But when t' bugler's cut t' lip on a broken beer bottle,
'E's asked Bert, like, would 'e come back?

Our Bert were reet chuffed, 'e unpacked 'is kitbag
An' took out 'is bugle to play,
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