Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Sand
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Chicken Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Sand
Rode the six hundred.
...
Chickens to right of them,
Hens to left of them,
Rosters in front of them
...
When can their glory fade?
O the wild roasters they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the eggs they made,
Honor the Chicken Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
(With profuse apologies to Alfred Tennyson.)