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 mold.
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 Bulchi's twenty-four,
To Spott's eighteen-pounders Responded with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly That marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travel'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 sign 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 scales of breastworks And drive them from their hold,
And show the stanchless 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 earch 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 ran 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.
Jan. 8 1815 The treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States 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 Andrew Jackson with five thousand Americans, mostly militia.
The British were repulsed with a loss of two thousand; the American loss was trifling.
