POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM ( pyi ighl by i harl Si ribni r's Suns The old Continentals poem£ AMERICAN OF ^PATRIOTISM CHOSEN BY BRANDED MATTHEWS AN EDITION REVISED AND EXTENDED ILLUSTRATED BY N.CWYETH c C. S. S. NEW YORK CHARLES SCHIBNER'S 1922 SONS Copyright, 1922, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Printed in the United States of America Published October, 1922 TO THE MEMORY OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Our lines to a plebeian race? Roundhead and Cavalier! Dumb are those names, erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed, as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear ; That is best blood that hath most iron in 't To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelphs, whose thin bloods crawl Down from some victor in a border brawl! Haw poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. PREFATORY NOTE An attempt has been made in the present collection to gather together the patriotic poems of America, those which depict feelings as well as those which describe actions, since these latter are as indicative of the temper of the time. It is a col- lection, for the most part, of old favorites, for Americans have been quick to take to heart a stirring telling of a daring and noble deed; but these may be found to have gained freshness by a grouping in order. The arrangement is chronological so far as it might be, that the history of America as told by her poets should be set forth. Here and there occur breaks in the story, chiefly because there are fit incidents for song which no poet has fitly sung as yet. The poems have been printed scrupulously from the best accessible text, and they have not been tinkered in any way, though some few have been curtailed slightly for the sake of space. In a few cases, where the whole poem has not fallen within the scope of this volume, only a fragment is here given. When this has been done, it is pointed out. Brief notes have been prefixed to many of the poems, making plain the occasion of their origin, and removing any chance obscurity of allusion. New York, November, 1882. In the two score years since this collection was prepared many things have happened, and many poets have been in- [ix] PREFATORY NOTE spired to celebrate men and moods and deeds. It has been found necessary to omit a few of the less important verses in the earlier edition to make room for the most significant of the lyric commemorations of events almost contemporary, and therefore appealing to us more immediately, and perhaps more poignantly. B. M. July 4, 1922. [x] [For permission to include their poems in this new edition the editor is indebted to Robert Bridges, Grace Ellery Channing, James Weldon John- son, Joseph C. Lincoln, Rudyard Kipling, Angela Morgan, Waldron Kin- solving Post, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, Henry van Dyke, and Edith Whar- ton. The poems of H. C. Bunner and Alan Seeger are included by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, those by Guy Wetmore Carryl by permission of George P. Putnam's Sons, that by Richard Watson Gilder by permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company, and that by Henry Newbolt by permission of Dodd, Mead and Company.] TABLE OF CONTENTS Boston Ralph Waldo Emerson . Paul Revere's Ride .... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Battle of Lexington . . Sidney Lanier Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson . Ticonderoga V. B. Wilson Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle Oliver Wendell Holmes . Warren's Address John Pierpont The Old Continentals .... Guy Humphrey McMaster Nathan Hale Francis Miles Finch The Little Black-eyed Rebel Will Carleton .... Molly Maguire at Monmouth Song of Marion's Men William Collins . William Cullen Bryant To the Memory of the Americans Who Fell at Eutaw . Philip Freneau James Russell Lowell James Gates Percival Francis Scott Key Thomas Dunn English . George Washington Perry's Victory on Lake Erie The Star Spangled Banner . The Battle of New Orleans The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake Old Ironsides Oliver Wendell Holmes Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman The Bivouac of the Dead . . Theodore O'Hara . . How Old Brown Took Harper's Ferry Edmund Clarence Stedman [ xiii ] 3 9 15 18 19 22 37 40 43 47 50 52 53 56 58 67 70 72 74 78 CONTENTS Apocalypse Richard Realf The Picket Guard Ethel Lynn Beers The Washers of the Shroud . James Russell Lowell Battle-Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe . At Port Royal John Greenleaf Whittier Ready Phoebe Cary . "How Are You, Sanitary?" . . Bret Harte . Song of the Soldiers .... Charles G. Halpine . Jonathan to John James Russell Lowell The Cumberland Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Kearny at Seven Pines . . . Edmund Clarence Stedman Dirge for a Soldier .... George H. Boker . Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whittier Fredericksburg Thomas Bailey Aldrich . Music in Camp John R. Thompson . Keenan's Charge George Parsons Lathrop The Black Regiment .... George H. Boker . John Burns of Gettysburg . . Bret Harte .... Twilight on Sumter .... Richard Henry Stoddard The Bay-Fight Henry Howard Brownell Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read Craven Henry Newbolt Sherman's March to the Sea . Samuel H. M. Byers O Captain! My Captain! . . . Walt Whitman . Abraham Lincoln James Russell Lowell The Blue and the Gray . . . Francis Miles Finch At the Farragut Statue . . . Robert Bridges I xiv ] CONTENTS Grant The Burial of Sherman . The Men Behind the Guns . The Regular Army Man . When the Great Gray Ships Come In Ad Finem Fideles Grover Cleveland A Toast to Our Native Land Fifty Years The American Volunteers . . I Have a Rendezvous with Death The Choice Annapolis Yanks Any Woman to a Soldier . To Peace, with Victory You and You With the Tide America's Welcome Home . The Unknown Soldier . H. C. Bunner Richard Watson Gilder . John Jerome Rooney Joseph C. Lincoln Guy Wetmore Carryl Guy Wetmore Carryl Joel Benton .... Robert Bridges James Weldon Johnson Marie Van Vorst Alan Seeger .... Rudyard Kipling Waldron Kinsolving Post James W. Foley . Grace Ellery Channing . Corinne Roosevelt Robinson Edith Wharton . Edith Wharton . Henry van Dyke . Angela Morgan . 179 182 184 186 189 192 194 195 196 200 201 203 205 207 209 211 212 216 219 221 [ XV ] ILLUSTRATIONS The Old Continentals Frontispiece That is best blood that hath most iron in't To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. FACING PAGE Paul Revere 12 And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night. Warren's Address 32 In the God of battles trust! Die we may, — and die we must. Nathan Hale 38 By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp. Washington 52 Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent. The Picket Guard 90 His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — For their mother — may Heaven defend her! Barbara Frietchie 124 "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. [ xvii ] ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE John Burns of Gettysburg 140 And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. O Captain! My Captain! 170 O Captain ! My Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather 'd every rock, the prize we sought is won. Grant 180 But lo, the man was here, and this was he, And at his hands Faith gave us victory. Sherman 182 Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease. The Regular Army Man 186 He ain't no Mama's darling, but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Regular Army Man. Our Mother 206 And great gray ships go down the tide And carry her sons away. The Unknown Soldier 222 He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood. [ xviii ] POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM BOSTON SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS RALPH WALDO EMERSON Dec. 16, This poem was read in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial Anni- 1773 versary of the "Boston Tea-Party" at which a band of men disguised as Indians had quietly emptied into the sea the taxed tea-chests of three British ships. THE rocky nook with hill-tops three Looked eastward from the farms, And twice each day the flowing sea Took Boston in its arms; The men of yore were stout and poor, And sailed for bread to every shore. And where they went on trade intent They did what freemen can, Their dauntless ways did all men praise, The merchant was a man. The world was made for honest trade, — To plant and eat be none afraid. The waves that rocked them on the deep To them their secret told; Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep, [3] BOSTON "Like us be free and bold!" The honest waves refuse to slaves The empire of the ocean caves. Old Europe groans with palaces, Has lords enough and more; — We plant and build by foaming seas A city of the poor; — For day by day could Boston Bay Their honest labor overpay. We grant no dukedoms to the few, We hold like rights and shall; — Equal on Sunday in the pew, On Monday in the mall. For what avail the plough or sail, Or land or life, if freedom fail? The noble craftsmen we promote, Disown the knave and fool; Each honest man shall have his vote, Each child shall have his school. A union then of honest men, Or union nevermore again. The wild rose and the barberry thorn Hung out their summer pride Where now on heated pavements worn The feet of millions stride. [4] BOSTON Fair rose the planted hills behind The good town on the bay, And where the western hills declined The prairie stretched away. What care though rival cities soar Along the stormy coast: Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore, If Boston knew the most! They laughed to know the world so wide; The mountains said: "Good-day! We greet you well, you Saxon men, Up with your towns and stay!" The world was made for honest trade, — To plant and eat be none afraid. "For you," they said, "no barriers be, For you no sluggard rest; Each street leads downward to the sea, Or landward to the West." O happy town beside the sea, Whose roads lead everywhere to all; Than thine no deeper moat can be, No stouter fence, no steeper wall! Bad news from George on the English throne: "You are thriving well," said he; [5 ] BOSTON "Now by these presents be it known, You shall pay us a tax on tea; 'T is very small, — no load at all, — Honor enough that we send the call/ "Not so," said Boston, "good my lord, We pay your governors here Abundant for their bed and board, Six thousand pounds a year. (Your highness knows our homely word,) Millions for self-government, But for tribute never a cent." The cargo came! and who could blame If Indians seized the tea, And, chest by chest, let down the same Into the laughing sea? For what avail the plough or sail Or land or life, if freedom fail? The townsmen braved the English king, Found friendship in the French, And Honor joined the patriot ring Low on their wooden bench. O bounteous seas that never fail! O day remembered yet ! O happy port that spied the sail Which wafted Lafayette! [6] BOSTON Pole-star of light in Europe's night, That never faltered from the right. Kings shook with fear, old empires crave The secret force to find Which fired the little State to save The rights of all mankind. But right is might through all the world; Province to province faithful clung, Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled, Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung. The sea returning day by day Restores the world-wide mart; So let each dweller on the Bay Fold Boston in his heart, Till these echoes be choked with snows, Or over the town blue ocean flows. Let the blood of her hundred thousands Throb in each manly vein; And the wit of all her wisest Make sunshine in her brain. For you can teach the lightning speech, And round the globe your voices reach. And each shall care for other, And each to each shall bend, [7] BOSTON To the poor a noble brother, To the good an equal friend. A blessing through the ages thus Shield all thy roofs and towers! God unih the fathers, so with us, Thou darling town of ours! I*) PAUL REVERE'S RIDE HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW April 18, This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales I775 of a Wayside Inn." IISTEN, my children, and you shall hear . Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, — ^ On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal-light, One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said, Good-night ! and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; [9] PAUL REVERE'S RIDE A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North Church By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, [ 10] PAUL REVERE'S RIDE The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre and still. And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! [ in PAUL REVERE'S RIDE A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, [ 12] Copyright by Charles Scrib Paul Revere PAUL REVERE'S RIDE As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! [ 13] PAUL REVERE'S RIDE For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. [14] THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON SIDNEY LANIER April 19, The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed yjmfr all political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a fragment of the "Psalm of the West." THEN haste ye, Prescott and Revere! Bring all the men of Lincoln here; Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle, Let Acton, Bedford, hither file — Oh, hither file, and plainly see Out of a wound leap Liberty. Say, Woodman April! all in green, Say, Robin April! hast thou seen In all thy travel round the earth Ever a morn of calmer birth? But Morning's eye alone serene Can gaze across yon village-green To where the trooping British run Through Lexington. Good men in fustian, stand ye still; The men in red come o'er the hill, Lay down your arms, damned rebels! cry The men in red full haughtily. But never a grounding gun is heard; [ 15] THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON The men in fustian stand unstirred; Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird Puts in his little heavenly word. O men in red ! if ye but knew The half as much as bluebirds do, Now in this little tender calm Each hand would out, and every palm With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke Or ere these lines of battle broke. O men in red ! if ye but knew The least of all that bluebirds do, Now in this little godly calm Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm — The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes Who pardons and is very wise — Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, Fire ! The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall: The homespuns' anxious voices call, Brother, art hurt? and Where hit, John? And, Wipe this bloody and Men, come on, And Neighbor, do but lift my head, And Who is wounded? Who is dead? Seven are killed. My God! my God! Seven lie dead on the village sod. Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown, Monroe and Porter, — these are down. I 16] THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON Nay, look ! stout Harrington not yet dead. He crooks his elbow, lifts his head. He lies at the step of his own house-door; He crawls and makes a path of gore. The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed; He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed; He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door, But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more. Clasp Wife, and kiss, and lift the head, Harrington lies at his doorstep dead. But, O ye Six that round him lay And bloodied up that April day ! As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell — At the door of the House wherein ye dwell; As Harrington came, ye likewise came And died at the door of your House of Fame. [ 17] HYMN RALPH WALDO EMERSON April 19, This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the 1775 Concord Monument, April 19, 1836 BY the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. [18] TICONDEROGA V. B. WILSON May XO, After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from 1775 Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold, seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of great service. From its chime of bells, the French called Ticonderoga "Carillon.'" THE cold, gray light of the dawning On old Carillon falls, And dim in the mist of the morning Stand the grim old fortress walls. No sound disturbs the stillness Save the cataract's mellow roar, Silent as death is the fortress, Silent the misty shore. But up from the wakening waters Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze, Lifting the banner of Britain, And whispering to the trees Of the swift gliding boats on the waters That are nearing the fog-shrouded land, With the old Green Mountain Lion, And his daring patriot band. [ 19] TICONDEROGA But the sentinel at the postern Heard not the whisper low; He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon A9 he walks on his beat to and fro, Of the starry eyes in Green Erin That were dim when he marched away, And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, *T is the first for many a day. A sound breaks the misty stillness, And quickly he glances around; Through the mist, forms like towering giants Seem rising out of the ground; A challenge, the firelock flashes, A sword cleaves the quivering air, And the sentry lies dead by the postern, Blood staining his bright yellow hair. Then, with a shout that awakens All the echoes of hillside and glen, Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress, Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men. The scarce wakened troops of the garrison Yield up their trust pale with fear; And down comes the bright British banner, And out rings a Green Mountain cheer. Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens With crimson and gold are ablaze; [ 20 ] TICONDEROGA And up springs the sun in his splendor And flings down his arrowy rays, Bathing in sunlight the fortress, Turning to gold the grim walls, While louder and clearer and higher Rings the song of the waterfalls. Since the taking of Ticonderoga A century has rolled away; Rut with pride the nation remembers That glorious morning in May. And the cataract's silvery music Forever the story tells, Of the capture of old Carillon, The chime of the silver bells. [21 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE June 17, AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY 1775 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TIS like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one re- members All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls"; When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more ? " [ 22 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL Poor old soul ! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father, with their bullets through his door. Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute" — For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels! In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky I had found him, — So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched be- fore. [23 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL They were making for the steeple, — the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair, Just across the narrow river — O, so close it made me shiver ! — Stood a fortress on the hilltop that but yesterday was bare. Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood be- hind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb: Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, And their lips were white with terror as they said, The hour has come! The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafen- ing thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode se- dately; It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill. Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall. [24] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers ! At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint- hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks. So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, sol- diers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting, — At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill. We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines ad- vancing — Now the front rank fires a volley — they have thrown away their shot; For behind the earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not. [25] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple), — He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) be- fore, — Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing, — And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor: — "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a * rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!" In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry rail- ing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall. Just a glirupse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, — nearer, — nearer, When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — then a crash — the steeple shakes — The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks ! [ 26 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray. Then we cried, "The troops are routed ! they are beat — it can't be doubted ! God be thanked, the fight is over !" — Ah ! the grim old soldier's smile ! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so), — "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?" — "Wait a while." O the trembling and the terror ! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again. All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blaz- ing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down ! The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them, — The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town ! [ 27 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each mas- sive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste de- parted ? Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep ? Now ! the walls they're almost under ! scarce a rod the foes asunder ! Not a firelock flashed against them ! up the earthwork they will swarm ! But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm ! So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!" And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: [ 28 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet, — once more, I guess, they'll try it- Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" — then he handed me his flask, Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Ja- maiky : I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;" So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hol- low, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun. All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming: It's the death grip that's a coming, — they will try the works once more." With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling — Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum ! Over heaps all fcbrn and gory — shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; [ 29 ] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck? It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted, — On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren ! hurry ! hurry ! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground. Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fel- lows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore. [30] GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 'round him crying, — And they said, "O, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother !" and — I saw his eyes were blue. — "Why, grandma, how you're winking!" — Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a — mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong. And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather; — "Please to tell us what his name was?" — Just your own, my little dear, — There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well ac- quainted, That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here ! [31 ] WARRENS ADDRESS JOHN PIERPONT June 17, Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a 1775 Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him instantly. STAND ! the ground's your own,, my braves ! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel. Ask it, — ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you ! — they're a-fire ! And, before you, see Who have done it ! — From the vale On they come ! — And will ye quail ? — Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! [32 ] Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons Warrens address WARREN'S ADDRESS In the God of battles trust ! Die we may, — and die we must; — But, 0, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! [ 33 ] THE OLD CONTINENTALS GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER 1775- The nucleus of the Continental Army was the New England 1788 force gathered before Boston, to the command of which Washington had been appointed two days before the battle of Bunker Hill, although he arrived too late to take part in that fight. I N their ragged regimentals Stood the old continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drum- mer, Through the morn ! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires; [34] THE OLD CONTINENTALS And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain ! Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broad-sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud. [35] THE OLD CONTINENTALS Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath ; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six pounder, Hurling death ! [36] NATHAN HALE FRANCIS MILES FINCH Sept. 22, After the retreat from Long Island, Washington needed informa- 1776 tion as to the British strength. Captain Nathan Hale, a young man of twenty-one, volunteered to get this. He was taken, inside the enemy's lines, and hanged as a spy, regretting that he had but one life to lose for his country. TO drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by: There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns [37 ] NATHAN HALE By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance — A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound ! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold [38] Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons Nathan Hale NATHAN HALE E'en the solemn Word of God ! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free. But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry. From the Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn. [39] THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL WILL CARLETON Between The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she lived in Sept. 26, 1777, Philadelphia. During the occupation of that town by anc j the British, she was ever ready to aid in the secret delivery Tune 17 1778 °f ^ e ^ ers written home by the husbands and fathers fighting in the Continental Army. A BOY drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough ; But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. [ 40] THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL "Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd; But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, W T ho were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. But the treasures— how to get them ? crept the question through her mind, Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find: And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh; Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye. So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said: And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was some- what shy, And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. "You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. [41 ] THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them under- neath my shawl ! Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry !" And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak, And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak; And, "Miss, / have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye. [42] MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH WILLIAM COLLINS June 28, The battle of Monmouth, was indecisive, but the Americans 1778 held the field, and the British retreated and remained inactive for the rest of tlie summer. ON the bloody field of Monmouth Flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne. Fiercely roared the tide of battle, Thick the sward was heaped with slain. Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian, horse, and grenadier, In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, Stood an Irish Cannonier. Loudly roared his iron cannon, Mingling ever in the strife, And beside him, firm and daring, Stood his faithful Irish wife. Of her bold contempt of danger Greene and Lee's Brigades could tell, Every one knew "Captain Molly," And the army loved her well. Surged the roar of battle round them, Swiftly flew the iron hail, [43 ] MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH Forward dashed a thousand bayonets, That lone battery to assail. From the foeman's foremost columns Swept a furious fusillade, Mowing down the massed battalions In the ranks of Greene's Brigade. Fast and faster worked the gunner, Soiled with powder, blood, and dust, English bayonets shone before him, Shot and shell around him burst; Still he fought with reckless daring, Stood and manned her long and well, Till at last the gallant fellow Dead — beside his cannon fell. With a bitter cry of sorrow, And a dark and angry frown, Looked that band of gallant patriots At their gunner stricken down. "Fall back, comrades, it is folly Thus to strive against the foe." "No! not so," cried Irish Molly; "We can strike another blow." ***** Quickly leaped she to the cannon, In her fallen husband's place, Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, Fired it in the foeman's face. [ 44 ] MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH Flashed another ringing volley, Roared another from the gun; "Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, "For the flag of Washington." Greene's Brigade, though shorn and shattered, Slain and bleeding half their men, When they heard that Irish slogan, Turned and charged the foe again. Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, To the front they forward wheel, And before their rushing onset Clinton's English columns reel. Still the cannon's voice in anger Rolled and rattled o'er the plain, Till there lay in swarms around it Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. "Forward! charge them with the bayonet!" 'Twas the voice of Washington, And there burst a fiery greeting From the Irish woman's gun. Monckton falls; against his columns Leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, And before their reeking bayonets Clinton's red battalions flee. Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing, Thin the foe's retreating ranks, [*5] MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH And behind them onward dashing Ogden hovers on their flanks. Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, Who in all their glory came, With their brutal Hessian hirelings To wipe out our country's name. Proudly floats the starry banner, Monmouth's glorious field is won, And in triumph Irish Molly Stands beside her smoking gun. [ 46 ] SONG OF MARION'S MEN WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1780- While the British Army held South Carolina, Marion and 1781 Sumter gathered bands of partisans and waged a vigorous guerilla warfare most harassing and destructive to the invader. OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, [47] SONG OF MARION'S MEN They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again. And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. [48] SONG OF MARION'S MEN A moment in the British camp — A moment — and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore. [ 49 ] TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW PHILIP FRENEAU Sept. 8, The fight of Eutaw Springs, although called a drawn battle, 1781 resulted in the withdrawal of the British troops from South Carolina. AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died: /-% Their limbs with dust are covered o'er — *A. JL. Weep on? ve springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more ! If, in this wreck of ruin, they Can yet be thought to claim the tear, Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say, The friends of freedom slumber here ! Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear, — [50] TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS They saw their injur'd country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear — but left the shield. Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compell'd to fly: None distant view'd the fatal plain, None griev'd, in such a cause, to die, — But, like the Parthians, fam'd of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw; These routed Britons, full as bold Retreated, and retreating slew. Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own. [51 ] GEORGE WASHINGTON JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL j u jy g This is a fragment from the ode for the centenary of Washing- •triritr ton's taking command of the American army at Cambridge. SOLDIER and statesman, rarest unison; High-poised example of great duties done Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamed Save by the men his nobler temper shamed; Never seduced through show of present good By other than unsetting lights to steer New-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast mood More steadfast, far from rashness as from fear, Rigid, but with himself first, grasping still In swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will; Not honored then or now because he wooed The popular voice, but that he still withstood; Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one Who was all this and ours, and all men's— WASHINGTON. [52] Cop j right by Charles Scribners Sims Washington PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE JAMES GATES PERCIVAL Sept. 10, Throughout the war of 1812 with Great Britain, the navy was 1813 more successful than the army. In the battle on Lake Erie, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry captured six British vessels. BRIGHT was the morn,— the waveless bay Shone like a mirror to the sun; 'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay, The matin birds their lays begun: While swelling o'er the gloomy wood Was heard the faintly-echoed roar, — The dashing of the foaming flood, That beat on Erie's distant shore. The tawny wanderer of the wild Paddled his painted birch canoe, And, where the wave serenely smiled, Swift as the darting falcon, flew; He rowed along that peaceful bay, And glanced its polished surface o'er, Listening the billow far away, That rolled on Erie's lonely shore. What sounds awake my slumbering ear, What echoes o'er the waters come? [53 ] PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE It is the morning gun I hear, The rolling of the distant drum. Far o'er the bright illumined wave I mark the flash, — I hear the roar, That calls from sleep the slumbering brave, To fight on Erie's lonely shore. See how the starry banner floats, And sparkles in the morning ray: While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes In echoes o'er the gleaming bay: Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet Columbia's cannons loudly roar, And valiant tars the battle greet, That storms on Erie's echoing shore. O, who can tell what deeds were done, When Britain's cross, on yonder wave, Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun, And met in Erie's flood its grave? Who tell the triumphs of that day, When, smiling at the cannon's roar, Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray, Conquered on Erie's echoing shore. Though many a wounded bosom bleeds For sire, for son, for lover dear, Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds, — Affliction dries her tender tear; [54 ] PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride, With ardent thoughts that wildly soar, My sire, my son, my lover died, Conquering on Erie's bloody shore. Long shall my country bless that day, When soared our Eagle to the skies; Long, long in triumph's bright array, That victory shall proudly rise: And when our country's lights are gone, And all its proudest days are o'er, How will her fading courage dawn, To think on Erie's bloody shore! [55] THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER FRANCIS SCOTT KEY Sept. 14, After the British had burned the Capitol at Washington, in 1313 August, 1813, they retired to their ships, and on Septem- ber l%th and 13th, they made an attack on Baltimore. This poem was written on the morning after the bombardment of Fort McHenry, while the author was a prisoner on the British fleet. OH! 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; Oh, 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, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam; Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream; Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! [56] THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, 'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country they'd leave us no more? Their blood hath 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 home and the war's desolation; Blessed 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 ! [57 ] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH J an# 8 The treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States 2815 was signed at Ghent, December 14, 1814; but before the news crossed the ocean, Pakenham, with twelve thousand British veterans, attacked New Orleans, defended by An- drew Jackson with five thousand Americans, mostly militia. The British were repulsed with a loss of two thousand; the American loss was trifling. H ERE, 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 [58] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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 [59 ] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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 [60] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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. [ 61 ] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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 [ 62 ] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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? [63] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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, [ 64 ] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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. [65] THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS 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. [66] THE AMERICAN FLAG JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE May 29, The penultimate quatrain [enclosed in brackets] ended the poem 1819