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The Heights of Alma Ye loyal Britons, pray give ear Unto the news I bring you here While joy each Briton's heart doth cheer For the vict'ry gained at Alma 'Twas on September the eighteenth day In spite of dashing salt sea spray, We landed safe in the Crimea Upon our route for Alma. All night we lay on the cold ground, Neither tent or shelter to be found, And with the rain were nearly drowned To cheer us for the Alma. Next morn a burning sun did rise Above the darkling eastern skies, Our gallant chief, Lord Raglan, cries, "Prepare to march for Alma." But when the Alma came in view, The stoutest heart it would subdue To see that Russian motley crew Upon the heights of Alma. They were so strongly fortified With batteries on the mountain side, Our general viewed the forts and cried, "There'll be hot work at Alma." The shot and shell it fell like rain While we the batteries strove to gain, And many's hero then was slain Upon the heights of Alma. The Thirty-thirds and Fusiliers, They stormed the heights with rousing cheers, While "Faugh-s-ballagh " rent our wars From Hibernia's sons at Alma. The Highland lads wi' kilt and hose, They were not last, you may suppose, They boldly faced the Russian foes And gained the heights of Alma, And when the heights we did command, We fought the Russians hand to hand, But the Russian bear he could not stand Our bayonet charge at Alma. Their guns and knapsacks they threw down, They ran like hares before the hound, While "Vive l'Empereur" did resound From the sons of France at Alma, But though the battle we have got And gallantly our heroes fought, Yet dearly was the victory bought, For thousands died at Alma. To Sebastopol our troops have gone, And you shall hear it before long, The fort will fall, were it twice as strong We'll have revenge at Alma. From orphans' eyes the tears do roll, And never a widow can control Or staunch the streams of blood that stole From thousands slain at Alma. Many a purty girl may mourn For her lover that will ne'er return, By cruel war he's from her torn, His body lies at Alma. Then Britain's sons may well remember Every twentieth of September When we made the Russian bear surrender, And gained the heights of Alma.  Faugh-a-ballagh! = Clear the way! The unofficial motto of the Royal Irish Fusileers, who were nicknamed the "Old Fogs" as a consequence. RG From Songs of the People, Henry DT #394 Laws J10 RG
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