Part 3 — CHAPTER II (continued 2)

Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too, And many a bloody villain more, Swore with their bloody savage crew, That they would plunder Baltimore. But General Winder being afraid That his militia would not stand, He sent away to crave the aid Of a few true Virginians. Then up we rose with hearts elate, To help our suffering sister state. When first our orders we received, For to prepare without delay, Our wives and sweethearts for to leave, And to the army march away, Although it grieved our hearts full sore, To leave our sweet Virginia shore, We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er, And march'd like true Virginians. Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu, With honor we'll return to you. With rapid marches on we went, To leave our sweet Virginia shore, No halt was made, no time was spent, Till we arrived at Baltimore. The Baltimoreans did us greet, The ladies clapt their lily-white hands, Exclaiming as we passed the street, "Welcome, ye brave Virginians. May Heaven all your foes confound, And send you home with laurels crown'd." We had not been in quarters long, Before we heard the dread alarms, The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring, The drum did beat to arms, to arms. Then up we rose to face our foes, Determined to meet them on the strand, And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore, Or die like brave Virginians. In Heaven above we placed our trust, Well knowing that our cause is just. Then Ross he landed at North Point, With seven thousand men or more, And swore by that time next night, That he would be in Baltimore. But Striker met him on the strand, Attended by a chosen band, Where he received a fatal shot From a brave Pennsylvanian— Whom Heaven directed to the field, To make this haughty Briton yield. Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet, To bombard Fort McHenry, A thinking that our men, of course, Would take affright and run away. The fort was commanded by a patriotic band, As ever graced fair Freedom's land, And he who did the fort command Was a true blue Virginian. Long may we have brave Armstead's name Recorded on the book of fame. A day and a night they tried their might, But found their bombs did not prevail, And seeing their army put to flight, They weigh'd their anchor and made sail, Resolving to return again, To execute their former plan; But if they do, they'll find us still That we are brave Virginians. And they shall know before they've done, That they are not in Washington. But now their shipping's out of sight, And each man takes a parting glass, Drinks to his true love and heart's delight, His only joy and bosom friend, For I might as well drink a health, For I hate to see good liquor stand, That America may always boast That we are brave Virginians.

Thy blue waves, Patapsco, flow'd soft and serene, Thy hills and thy valleys were cheerful and gay, While the day-star of Peace shed its beams on the scene, And youth, love, and beauty reflected its ray. Where white-bosom'd commerce late reign'd o'er thy tide, And zephyrs of gladness expanded each sail, I saw hostile squadrons in dread array ride, While their thunders reëchoed o'er hill and o'er vale. But our heroes, thy sons, proud in panoply rose, For their homes,—for their altars,—to conquer or die; With the lightning of freedom encounter'd their foes; Taught the veteran to tremble,—the valiant to fly. Now, how tranquil thy scenes when the clangors of war Late broke the soft dreams of the fair and the young! To the tombs of thy heroes shall beauty repair, And their deeds by our bards shall forever be sung. On the iron-crown'd fortress "that frowns o'er thy flood," And tells the sad fate of the gay and the brave, In mournful reflection Eliza late stood, And paid a soft tribute—a tear on their grave. To the manes of the fallen, oh! how grateful that tear! Far sweeter to me than the Spring's richest bloom: Such rewards light the fire of Chivalry here, And when the brave fall—ever hallow their tomb.

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there: O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream: 'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave: And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto: "In God is our trust." And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Francis Scott Key.

Ye parliament of England, You lords and commons, too, Consider well what you're about, And what you're going to do; You're now to fight with Yankees, I'm sure you'll rue the day You roused the sons of liberty, In North America. You first confined our commerce, And said our ships shan't trade, You next impressed our seamen, And used them as your slaves; You then insulted Rogers, While ploughing o'er the main, And had not we declarèd war, You'd have done it o'er again. You thought our frigates were but few And Yankees could not fight, Until brave Hull your Guerrière took And banished her from your sight. The Wasp then took your Frolic, We'll nothing say to that, The Poictiers being of the line, Of course she took her back. The next, your Macedonian, No finer ship could swim, Decatur took her gilt-work off, And then he sent her in. The Java, by a Yankee ship Was sunk, you all must know; The Peacock fine, in all her plume, By Lawrence down did go. Then next you sent your Boxer, To box us all about, But we had an Enterprising brig That beat your Boxer out; We boxed her up to Portland, And moored her off the town, To show the sons of liberty The Boxer of renown. The next upon Lake Erie, Where Perry had some fun, You own he beat your naval force, And caused them for to run; This was to you a sore defeat, The like ne'er known before— Your British squadron beat complete— Some took, some run ashore. There's Rogers in the President, Will burn, sink, and destroy; The Congress, on the Brazil coast, Your commerce will annoy; The Essex, in the South Seas, Will put out all your lights, The flag she waves at her mast-head— "Free Trade and Sailor's Rights." Lament, ye sons of Britain, Far distant is the day, When you'll regain by British force What you've lost in America; Go tell your king and parliament, By all the world 'tis known, That British force, by sea and land, By Yankees is o'erthrown. Use every endeavor, And strive to make a peace, For Yankee ships are building fast, Their navy to increase; They will enforce their commerce, The laws by heaven are made, That Yankee ships in time of peace To any port may trade.

When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay The thunderbolt aside, And, twining olives with her laurel crown, Rest in the Bower of Peace? Not long may this unnatural strife endure Beyond the Atlantic deep; Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk, And insolent in wrong, Afflict with their misrule the indignant land Where Washington hath left His awful memory A light for after-times! Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny In their own annals, by their countrymen. For lasting shame shall they be written down. Soon may the better Genius there prevail! Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay The thunderbolt aside, And, twining olives with her laurel crown, Rest in the Bower of Peace. Robert Southey.

A cliff-locked port and a bluff sea wall, And a craggy rampart, brown and bold; Proud Pico's bastions towering tall, And a castle dumb and cold. The scream of a gull where a porpoise rolls; And the flash of a home-bound fisher's blade, Where the ghostly boom of the drum fish tolls For wrecks that the surf has made. A grim dun ridge, and a thin gray beach, And the swish and the swash of the sleepless tide; And the moonlight masking the reef's long reach, Where the lurking breakers bide. And under the castle's senseless walls (Santa Cruz, old and cold and dumb), Where only the prying sea-mew calls, And the harbor beetles hum, A Yankee craft at her cable swings: "All's well!" the cheery lookout sings. But the skipper counts his sleeping crew, His guns, and his drowsy ensign, too. —Says he, "They'll do!" For the skipper marks, tho' he makes no sign, Frigate and corvette and ship of the line, Rounding the headland into the light: "Three Union Jacks and a moonlight night!" —Says he, "We'll fight!" Twelve launches cutting the silver bay; Twenty score boarders called away. And it's "Lively, hearties, and let her go!" With a rouse and a cheer and a "Yeo, ho, ho!" —Says Reid, "Lie low!" 'Tis a song of havoc the rowlocks sing, And Death marks time in the rower's swing; 'Tis a baleful glow on the spouting spray, As the keels in their cruel lust make way. "Now, up and slay!" Now up and play in the mad old game— Axe and cutlass, fury and flame! White breasts red-wat in the viler muck, Proud hearts hurled back in the sprawling ruck. —Says Reid, "Well struck!" Pike and pistol and dripping blade (So are the ghosts and the glory made); A curse for a groan, and a cheer for a yell; Pale glut of Hate and red rapture of Hell! —Says Reid, "All's well!" All's well for the banner that dances free, Where the mountains are shouting the news to the sea. All's well for the bold, and all's ill for the strong, In the fight and the flight that shall hold us long, In tale and song. John Williamson Palmer.

Tell the story to your sons Of the gallant days of yore, When the brig of seven guns Fought the fleet of seven score, From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night— Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight In the harbor of Fayal the Azore. Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal: One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall; Nelson's valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are, Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar. Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay. There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast; There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King! At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide, And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town And the privateer that lay close inside; Came the eighteen-gun Carnation, and the Rota, forty-four, And the triple-decked Plantagenet an Admiral's pennon bore: And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller, And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore. Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: "Have no fear; They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here As if fifty stout armadas to shelter you from harm, For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm." But the privateersman said, "Well we know the Englishmen, And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen. Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end, And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then." "Seize the pirate where she lies!" cried the English Admiral: "If the Portuguese protect her, all the wors for Portugal!" And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray, Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong, grim and dark and ready, lay. Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning, On they came in splendid silence, till a cable's length away. Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico's thousand echoes woke; And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay. Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again, And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men; And he gave the word "No quarter!" and he sent them forth to smite. Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might! Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need; God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid. Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft, Fourteen launches together striking the little craft. They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail; But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grape-shot fell like hail; Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear, Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer. And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen: Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between. Once in the deadly strife The boarder's leader pressed Forward of all the rest Challenging life for life; But ere their blades had crossed A dying sailor tossed His pistol to Reid, and cried, "Now riddle the lubber's hide!" But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside, And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died. Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead, But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled. Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done, When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one, And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her, gun for gun, And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun. Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four, With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore. And the dauntless captain said: "Take our wounded and our dead, Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong's days are o'er; But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave— To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman's grave." So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand. Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side, And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide. Tell the story to your sons, When the haughty stranger boasts Of his mighty ships and guns And the muster of his hosts, How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun, In the harbor of Fayal the Azore! James Jeffrey Roche.

Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lift your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer! The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine Upon the blue Azores, As twilight pours her purple wine Upon those storied shores; The General Armstrong's flag of stars In the harbor of Fayal Flies forth, remote from thought of wars, Until the sunset call. No glistening guns in serried line The slender schooner boasts, A pivot and eight hearty nines Shall meet her foeman's hosts; Her sides are oak, her masts are tall, Her captain's one to trust, Her ninety men are free men all, Her quarrel wholly just. On far Fayal the moon is fair To-night as it was when, Glad in the gay September air, Reid laughed beside his men; On far Fayal the sun to-day Was lord of all the sky As when the General Armstrong lay, Our banner flung on high; But now there rests a holier light Than theirs on land or sea: The splendor of our sailors' might, And glorious bravery. A moment, and the flag will sink As sinks the sun to rest Beyond the billows' western brink Where towers the Eagle's nest, When round the azure harbor-head Where sparkling ocean brims, Her British ensign streaming red, The brig Carnation swims. Ere with the sun her sails are set The Rota frigate glides And the great ship Plantagenet To stations at her sides: They carry six score guns and ten, They serve the British crown, They muster o'er a thousand men— To win were small renown. 'Twas by Fayal, where Portugal Still flaunts her Blue-and-White; What cares their Floyd for Portugal Or what cares he for right? He starts his signals down the line— Our flag is flying free— His weapons in the moonbeams shine, His boats drop on the sea. Straight to the Armstrong swift they come. Speak, or I fire! shouts Reid— Their rattling rowlocks louder hum To mark their heightened speed. Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream Bright glares of crimson flame; Our muskets but an instant gleam, Yet leave them wounded, lame. They try a feeble, brief reply Ere back their course is sped. Before our marksmanship they fly, Their living with their dead. Floyd swears upon his faith and all The Armstrong shall be his; He scorns rebuke from Portugal, But not such enemies; So guns are charged with canister And picked men go to fight: Brave hearts and doomed full many were In the Azores that night. From nine until the nick of twelve Their boats are seen to throng Where rocky islets slant and shelve Safe from our bullets' song; Then out they dash, their small arms flash, While blare their carronades, Their boarding-pikes and axes clash, Their guns and cutlass blades. Our Long Tom speaks, our shrapnel shrieks; But ere we load again, On every side the battle reeks Of thrice a hundred men. Our rail is low, and there the foe Cling as they shoot and hack. We stab them as they climb a-row, Slaying, nor turning back. They dash up now upon our bow, And there our hearties haste; Now at our stern their muskets burn, And now along our waist. Our fo'c'sle weeps when Williams dies, When Worth falls in his blood, But bleeding through the battle-cries Our gallant Johnson stood; The British muskets snapt and spat Till Reid came in his wrath, His brow so pale with purpose that It glistened down his path. Forth from the quarter-deck he springs, He and his men with cheers; On British skulls his cutlass rings, His pistols in their ears; His men beside him hold him good Till spent the foeman's breath; Where at our sides a Briton stood, A Briton sank in death; Though weak our men with blood and sweat, Our sides a riddled wreck, Yet ne'er a British foot is set Upon the Armstrong's deck. Three hundred men their Admiral sent Our schooner's ways to mend: A hundred British sailors went Down to a warrior's end. Two of our lads in death are red, But safe the flag above: God grant that never worse be sped The fray for all we love! The General Armstrong lies beneath The waves in far Fayal, But still his countrymen shall wreathe Reid's name with laurels tall; The sun and moon are fair to see Above the blue Azores, But fairer far Reid's victory Beside their storied shores. Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, And blue is Fayal's clear sky; The sun and moon and sky are bright, And the sea, and stars on high; But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid And the flag of his ship and crew Are brighter far than sea or star Or the heavens' red, white, and blue: So lift your voices once again For the land we love so dear, For the fighting Captain and the men Of the Yankee Privateer. Wallace Rice.

Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling, Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowy Surge, in its sweep laves, and, with lashing foam, breaks, Rough in its whiteness; See where the flag of Freedom, with its light wreaths, Floats on the wind, in buoyancy expanded High o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork, Proudly and fearless. Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous, Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines Sparkling with death-lights. Shrink then that band of freemen, at the onslaught? Palsy those arms that wield the unerring rifles? Strikes chill the breast dread fear? or coward paleness Whiten the blanch'd cheek? No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din, Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock, Rallying they stand fast. "Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proud Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:" Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neither Awed us, nor conquer'd. Charles L. S. Jones.

Here, in my rude log cabin, Few poorer men there be Among the mountain ranges Of Eastern Tennessee. My limbs are weak and shrunken, White hairs upon my brow, My dog—lie still old fellow!— My sole companion now. Yet I, when young and lusty, Have gone through stirring scenes, For I went down with Carroll To fight at New Orleans. You say you'd like to hear me The stirring story tell, Of those who stood the battle And those who fighting fell. Short work to count our losses— We stood and dropped the foe As easily as by firelight Men shoot the buck or doe. And while they fell by hundreds Upon the bloody plain, Of us, fourteen were wounded And only eight were slain. The eighth of January, Before the break of day, Our raw and hasty levies Were brought into array. No cotton-bales before us— Some fool that falsehood told; Before us was an earthwork Built from the swampy mould And there we stood in silence, And waited with a frown. To greet with bloody welcome The bull-dogs of the Crown. The heavy fog of morning Still hid the plain from sight, When came a thread of scarlet Marked faintly in the white. We fired a single cannon, And as its thunders rolled, The mist before us lifted In many a heavy fold— The mist before us lifted And in their bravery fine Came rushing to their ruin The fearless British line. Then from our waiting cannon Leaped forth the deadly flame, To meet the advancing columns That swift and steady came. The thirty-twos of Crowley And Bluchi's twenty-four To Spotts's eighteen-pounders Responded with their roar, Sending the grape-shot deadly That marked its pathway plain, And paved the road it travelled With corpses of the slain. Our rifles firmly grasping, And heedless of the din, We stood in silence waiting For orders to begin. Our fingers on the triggers, Our hearts, with anger stirred, Grew still more fierce and eager As Jackson's voice was heard: "Stand steady! Waste no powder! Wait till your shots will tell! To-day the work you finish— See that you do it well!" Their columns drawing nearer, We felt our patience tire, When came the voice of Carroll, Distinct and measured, "Fire!" Oh! then you should have marked us Our volleys on them pour— Have heard our joyous rifles Ring sharply through the roar, And seen their foremost columns Melt hastily away As snow in mountain gorges Before the floods of May. They soon re-formed their columns, And, mid the fatal rain We never ceased to hurtle, Came to their work again. The Forty-fourth is with them, That first its laurels won With stout old Abercrombie Beneath an eastern sun. It rushes to the battle, And, though within the rear Its leader is a laggard, It shows no signs of fear. It did not need its colonel, For soon there came instead An eagle-eyed commander, And on its march he led. 'Twas Pakenham in person, The leader of the field; I knew it by the cheering That loudly round him pealed; And by his quick, sharp movement We felt his heart was stirred, As when at Salamanca He led the fighting Third. I raised my rifle quickly, I sighted at his breast, God save the gallant leader And take him to his rest! I did not draw the trigger, I could not for my life. So calm he sat his charger Amid the deadly strife, That in my fiercest moment A prayer arose from me— God save that gallant leader, Our foeman though he be! Sir Edward's charger staggers; He leaps at once to ground. And ere the beast falls bleeding Another horse is found. His right arm falls—'tis wounded; He waves on high his left; In vain he leads the movement, The ranks in twain are cleft. The men in scarlet waver Before the men in brown, And fly in utter panic— The soldiers of the Crown! I thought the work was over, But nearer shouts were heard, And came, with Gibbs to head it, The gallant Ninety-third. Then Pakenham, exulting, With proud and joyous glance, Cried, "Children of the tartan— Bold Highlanders—advance! Advance to scale the breastworks, And drive them from their hold, And show the stainless courage That marked your sires of old!" His voice as yet was ringing, When, quick as light, there came The roaring of a cannon, And earth seemed all aflame. Who causes thus the thunder The doom of men to speak? It is the Baratarian, The fearless Dominique. Down through the marshalled Scotsmen The step of death is heard, And by the fierce tornado Falls half the Ninety-third. The smoke passed slowly upward And, as it soared on high, I saw the brave commander In dying anguish lie. They bear him from the battle Who never fled the foe; Unmoved by death around them His bearers softly go. In vain their care, so gentle, Fades earth and all its scenes; The man of Salamanca Lies dead at New Orleans. But where were his lieutenants? Had they in terror fled? No! Keane was sorely wounded And Gibbs as good as dead. Brave Wilkinson commanding, A major of brigade, The shattered force to rally A final effort made. He led it up our ramparts, Small glory did he gain— Our captives some; some slaughtered, And he himself was slain. The stormers had retreated, The bloody work was o'er; The feet of the invaders Were soon to leave our shore. We rested on our rifles And talked about the fight, When came a sudden murmur Like fire from left to right; We turned and saw our chieftain, And then, good friend of mine, You should have heard the cheering That rang along the line. For well our men remembered How little, when they came, Had they but native courage, And trust in Jackson's name; How through the day he labored, How kept the vigils still, Till discipline controlled us— A stronger power than will; And how he hurled us at them Within the evening hour, That red night in December And made us feel our power. In answer to our shouting Fire lit his eye of gray; Erect, but thin and pallid, He passed upon his bay. Weak from the baffled fever, And shrunken in each limb, The swamps of Alabama Had done their work on him; But spite of that and fasting, And hours of sleepless care, The soul of Andrew Jackson Shone forth in glory there. Thomas Dunn English.

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding, Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies; Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosing Scarlet for England. Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightnings Search out our earthworks, silent and portentous. Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossing Their lines spring forward. Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen, Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateers-men, Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnel Shriek through their columns. Shattered in fragments, thus their right is riven; But on our left a deadlier bolt is speeding: Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet defeated, Charge in their valor. Closing their files, our cannon fire disdaining, Dauntless they come with vict'ry on their standards; Then slowly rise the rifles of our marksmen, Tennessee hunters. Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling bullets Lay them in windrows, war's infernal harvest. High through the onslaught Tennessee is shouting, Joying in battle. Pakenham falls there, Keane and his Highlanders Close from the centre, hopeless in their courage; Backward they stagger, dying and disabled, Gloriously routed. Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow louder: War clouds sweep back in January breezes, Showing the dreadful proof of the great triumph God hath vouchsafed us. That gallant war-host, England's best and bravest, Met by raw levies, scores against its hundreds, Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's weeping, Reddening the meadows. Freed are our States from European tyrants: Lift then your voices for the little army Led by our battle-loving Andrew Jackson, Blest of Jehovah. Wallace Rice.

Hail sons of generous valor, Who now embattled stand, To wield the brand of strife and blood, For Freedom and the land. And hail to him your laurelled chief, Around whose trophied name A nation's gratitude has twined The wreath of deathless fame. Now round that gallant leader Your iron phalanx form, And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks, Your bosoms to the storm. Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls, Its fury shall be low, For justice guides the warrior's steel, And vengeance strikes the blow. High o'er the gleaming columns, The bannered star appears, And proud amid its martial band, His crest the eagle rears. And long as patriot valor's arm Shall win the battle's prize, That star shall beam triumphantly, That eagle seek the skies. Then on, ye daring spirits, To danger's tumults now, The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown, To grace the victor's brow; And they who for their country die, Shall fill an honored grave; For glory lights the soldier's tomb, And beauty weeps the brave. Joseph Rodman Drake.

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair, Who grace this famous city, Just listen, if you've time to spare, While I rehearse a ditty; And for the opportunity Conceive yourselves quite lucky, For 'tis but seldom that you see A hunter from Kentucky. Oh! Kentucky, The hunters of Kentucky. We are a hardy free-born race, Each man to fear a stranger; Whate'er the game, we join in chase, Despising toil and danger: And if a daring foe annoys, Whate'er his strength or force is, We'll show him that Kentucky boys Are Alligator-horses. I s'pose you've read it in the prints, How Pakenham attempted To make old Hickory Jackson wince, But soon his schemes repented; For we, with rifles ready cock'd, Thought such occasion lucky, And soon around the general flock'd The hunters of Kentucky. I s'pose you've heard how New Orleans Is famed for wealth and beauty; They've gals of every hue, it seems, From snowy white to sooty: So Pakenham he made his brags If he in fight was lucky, He'd have their gals and cotton bags, In spite of Old Kentucky. But Jackson he was wide awake, And wasn't scared at trifles, For well he knew what aim we take With our Kentucky rifles; So he led us down to Cypress Swamp, The ground was low and mucky; There stood John Bull in martial pomp— But here was Old Kentucky. We raised a bank to hide our breasts, Not that we thought of dying, But then we always like to rest, Unless the game is flying: Behind it stood our little force— None wish'd it to be greater, For every man was half a horse And half an alligator. They didn't let our patience tire Before they show'd their faces; We didn't choose to waste our fire, But snugly kept our places; And when so near we saw them wink, We thought it time to stop 'em, It would have done you good, I think, To see Kentuckians drop 'em. They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight, When lead was all their booty, And so they wisely took to flight, And left us all the beauty. And now, if danger e'er annoys, Remember what our trade is; Just send for us Kentucky boys, And we'll protect you, ladies: Oh! Kentucky, The hunters of Kentucky.

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— Constitution, where ye bound for? Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be had Acrost the Western ocean. Our captain was married in Boston town And sailed next day to sea; For all must go when the State says so; Blow high, blow low, sailed we. "Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift When my home-bound pennant flies? The rarest that be on land or sea It shall be my lady's prize." "There's never a prize on sea or land Could bring such joy to me As my true love sound and homeward bound With a king's ship under his lee." The Western ocean is wide and deep, And wild its tempests blow, But bravely rides "Old Ironsides," A-cruising to and fro. We cruised to the east and we cruised to north, And southing far went we, And at last off Cape de Verd we raised Two frigates sailing free. Oh, God made man, and man made ships, But God makes very few Like him who sailed our ship that day, And fought her, one to two. He gained the weather-gage of both, He held them both a-lee; And gun for gun, till set of sun, He spoke them fair and free; Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail, And ship, and sea, and shore, And our only aim was the bursting flame And the hidden cannon's roar. Then a long rift in the mist showed up The stout Cyane, close-hauled To swing in our wake and our quarter rake, And a boasting Briton bawled: "Starboard and larboard, we've got him fast Where his heels won't take him through; Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,— Ho, Yankee, which will you do?" We did not luff and we did not wear, But braced our topsails back, Till the sternway drew us fair and true Broadsides athwart her track. Athwart her track and across her bows We raked her fore and aft, And out of the fight and into the night Drifted the beaten craft. The slow Levant came up too late; No need had we to stir; Her decks we swept with fire, and kept The flies from troubling her. We raked her again, and her flag came down,— The haughtiest flag that floats,— And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs, With never a bark in their throats. With never a bark and never a bite, But only an oath to break, As we squared away for Praya Bay With our prizes in our wake. Parole they gave and parole they broke, What matters the cowardly cheat, If the captain's bride was satisfied With the one prize laid at her feet? A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— Constitution, where ye bound for? Wherever the British prizes be, Though it's one to two, or one to three,— "Old Ironsides" means victory, Acrost the Western ocean. James Jeffrey Roche.

With half the Western world at stake, See Perry on the midland lake, The unequal combat dare; Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs, He met the foe and made him ours, And closed the savage war. Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain, In ships outnumbered, guns, and men, Saw dangers thick increase; His trust in God and virtue's cause He conquer'd in the lion's jaws, And led the way to peace. To sing each valiant hero's name Whose deeds have swelled the files of fame, Requires immortal powers; Columbia's warriors never yield To equal force by sea or field, Her eagle never cowers. Long as Niagara's cataract roars Or Erie laves our Northern shores, Great Brown, thy fame shall rise; Outnumber'd by a veteran host Of conquering heroes, Britain's boast— Conquest was there thy prize. At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band, Where gallant Macomb held command, The unequal host oppose; Provost confounded, vanquished flies, Convinced that numbers won't suffice Where Freemen are the foes. Our songs to noblest strains we'll raise While we attempt thy matchless praise, Carolina's godlike son; While Mississippi rolls his flood, Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood, The palm shall be thine own. At Orleans—lo! a savage band, In countless numbers gain the strand, "Beauty and spoil" the word— There Jackson with his fearless few, The invincibles by thousands slew, And dire destruction poured. O Britain! when the tale is told Of Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled, Should grief and madness rise, Remember God, the avenger, reigns, Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains, And Hampton's female cries.

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world, And bid our pains and sorrows cease; Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd, And may we hail thy coming, peace! For long enough has ruin stalk'd, With force and terror o'er our earth; Around them hideous spectres walk'd, And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth. Ah! banish'd from these happy skies, By thee, be soon these boding stars, Which erring made mankind arise, To deeds of sin, to blood and wars. Philadelphia, 1816.