I've seen Balaclava by night and by day, With its lofty rough mountains and foaming black sea-- The billows embracing the proud bosomed rock, Where the porpoises sport and the seagulls do flock. I've seen Balaclava all covered with snow, On a cold winter's night when on sentry I'd go; The scene it was lovely, the stars glittered bright, Fair Luna was shining, Nature's mantle was white. I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low, Not half of whom ever fell by the hands of the foe; The causes are many, as well known to the State, But I might give offence if the truth I relate. I saw the Valley of Death, and going to the trenches, I looked on the graves and thought of the wenches[14] In silence lamenting some dear friend or brother, I thought of the orphan and the heart-broken mother. I've seen the Valley of Death, the cross and the tomb, O'er the graves of those heroes--oh, sad was their doom; Where the wild dogs are prowling--what a horrible sight! Where the carrion-crows gather, and owls screech by night. I've seen the Valley of Death--but here I will not dwell, It would take me too long my sad story to tell; 'Tis like some pandemonium--cursed region below-- Sometimes hot like a furnace, then covered with snow. I've seen Colonel Wellesley, who had lately come here, A man much respected by each bold Fusilier; His discipline was gentle, his mind was serene, A friend to the 7th, his country, and Queen. I've heard that our Colonel will open a school, To teach art and science near Sebastopol; The soldiers to cipher, to write, and to read, Then march to the north side the Russians to bleed. The arts and the sciences, what wonderful things, They open up coal-beds and artesian springs; We are going to Cronstadt in scientific tubs, To take the old bear and all his young cubs. I've seen one rare thing--the right man in his right place, One Sergeant Silvester, who has charge of the peace; He is cock of the walk, and a gander 'mong geese; He keeps down bad morals with his rural police. The brave sons of Britain, they never did flinch From the bullet-swept plains, or the cold bloody trench; They have planted their standard--who dares pull it down? In conjunction with France, in Sebastopol town. And now, to conclude my short but truthful tale, I've seen those kind sisters, and the famed Nightingale, Attending the wounded on beds that were gory, And this is the end of my Crimean story. By Sergt. T. GOWING, And Private A. CRAWFORD. CHAPTER VII.