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MY first grows by the riverside, And in the fields it has been seen; ’T is raised on poles, the country’s pride, Dear to the peasant and the queen. The men had many battles braved, And on my last I saw them sit, Beside the General, who waved My last, and read aloud a writ. Beside a river flowing free, The spot marked by a grassy mound, My whole, nicknamed “Old Hickory,” Was long ago put in the ground.