The Battle of New Orleans

 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 dropp'd 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 bulldogs 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 roll'd
  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 cannons
    Leap'd 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 travell'd
    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 stirr'd,
  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 mark'd 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 reform'd 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 peal'd;
  And by his quick, sharp movement,
    We felt his heart was stirr'd,
  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 staunchless courage
    That mark'd 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 Baritarian,
    The fearless Dominique.
  Down through the marshall'd 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 shatter'd force to rally,
    A final effort made.
  He led it up our ramparts,
    Small glory did he gain—
  Our captives some, while others fled,
    And he himself was slain.

  The stormers had retreated,
    The bloody work was o'er;
  The feet of the invaders
    Were seen to leave our shore.
  We rested on our rifles
    And talk'd 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 lasting,
    And hours of sleepless care,
  The soul of Andrew Jackson
   Shone forth in glory there.