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 warLate 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.
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 warLate 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.
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 warLate 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.
Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key had put out to the admiral's frigate to arrange for an exchange of prisoners, and was directed to remain till the action was over. All that night he watched the flaming shells, and when, by the first rays of the morning, he saw his country's flag still waving above the fort, he hastily wrote the stirring verses which have since become America's national song.
Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key had put out to the admiral's frigate to arrange for an exchange of prisoners, and was directed to remain till the action was over. All that night he watched the flaming shells, and when, by the first rays of the morning, he saw his country's flag still waving above the fort, he hastily wrote the stirring verses which have since become America's national song.
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER
[September 13, 1814]
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 waveO'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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA 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 slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and the war's desolation!Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued landPraise 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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.Francis Scott Key.
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 waveO'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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA 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 slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and the war's desolation!Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued landPraise 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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.Francis Scott Key.
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 waveO'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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA 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 slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and the war's desolation!Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued landPraise 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 waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Francis Scott Key.
The destruction of Washington, besides being perhaps the most outrageous act of vandalism ever committed by a Christian army, was a grave tactical error. One feeling of wrath and cry for vengeance swept the land; party differences were forgotten, and the whole country pressed forward to prosecute the war with an enthusiasm and vigor which had before been sadly wanting.
The destruction of Washington, besides being perhaps the most outrageous act of vandalism ever committed by a Christian army, was a grave tactical error. One feeling of wrath and cry for vengeance swept the land; party differences were forgotten, and the whole country pressed forward to prosecute the war with an enthusiasm and vigor which had before been sadly wanting.
YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND
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 dayYou 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 fewAnd Yankees could not fight,Until brave Hull your Guerrière tookAnd 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 shipWas 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 brigThat beat your Boxer out;We boxed her up to Portland,And moored her off the town,To show the sons of libertyThe 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 forceWhat 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 peaceTo any port may trade.
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 dayYou 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 fewAnd Yankees could not fight,Until brave Hull your Guerrière tookAnd 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 shipWas 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 brigThat beat your Boxer out;We boxed her up to Portland,And moored her off the town,To show the sons of libertyThe 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 forceWhat 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 peaceTo any port may trade.
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 dayYou 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 fewAnd Yankees could not fight,Until brave Hull your Guerrière tookAnd 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 shipWas 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 brigThat beat your Boxer out;We boxed her up to Portland,And moored her off the town,To show the sons of libertyThe 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 forceWhat 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 peaceTo any port may trade.
Nor was the outrage universally applauded, even in England. An anti-war party had arisen there, and was constantly growing in strength.
Nor was the outrage universally applauded, even in England. An anti-war party had arisen there, and was constantly growing in strength.
THE BOWER OF PEACE
From "Ode Written during the War with America, 1814"
When shall the Island Queen of Ocean layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace?Not long may this unnatural strife endureBeyond the Atlantic deep;Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,And insolent in wrong,Afflict with their misrule the indignant landWhere Washington hath leftHis awful memoryA light for after-times!Vile instruments of fallen TyrannyIn 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 layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace.Robert Southey.
When shall the Island Queen of Ocean layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace?Not long may this unnatural strife endureBeyond the Atlantic deep;Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,And insolent in wrong,Afflict with their misrule the indignant landWhere Washington hath leftHis awful memoryA light for after-times!Vile instruments of fallen TyrannyIn 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 layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace.Robert Southey.
When shall the Island Queen of Ocean layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace?
Not long may this unnatural strife endureBeyond the Atlantic deep;Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,And insolent in wrong,Afflict with their misrule the indignant landWhere Washington hath leftHis awful memoryA light for after-times!Vile instruments of fallen TyrannyIn 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 layThe thunderbolt aside,And, twining olives with her laurel crown,Rest in the Bower of Peace.
Robert Southey.
One of the most remarkable naval battles of the war occurred on September 26, 1814, in Fayal Roads. The General Armstrong, the famous privateer schooner, Captain Samuel Chester Reid, had anchored there, trusting to the neutrality of the harbor, and was attacked after nightfall by the boats of a strong British squadron. A fearful struggle followed, the British being finally beaten off.
One of the most remarkable naval battles of the war occurred on September 26, 1814, in Fayal Roads. The General Armstrong, the famous privateer schooner, Captain Samuel Chester Reid, had anchored there, trusting to the neutrality of the harbor, and was attacked after nightfall by the boats of a strong British squadron. A fearful struggle followed, the British being finally beaten off.
REID AT FAYAL
[September 26, 1814]
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 tollsFor 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.
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 tollsFor 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.
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 tollsFor 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.
THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER
Tell the story to your sonsOf the gallant days of yore,When the brig of seven gunsFought 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 fightIn 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 awayWaited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coastIn the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bringHome in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tideCame the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the townAnd 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 hereAs 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 strifeThe boarder's leader pressedForward of all the restChallenging life for life;But ere their blades had crossedA dying sailor tossedHis 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 landWith 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 boastsOf his mighty ships and gunsAnd the muster of his hosts,How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yoreWhen the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!James Jeffrey Roche.
Tell the story to your sonsOf the gallant days of yore,When the brig of seven gunsFought 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 fightIn 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 awayWaited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coastIn the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bringHome in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tideCame the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the townAnd 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 hereAs 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 strifeThe boarder's leader pressedForward of all the restChallenging life for life;But ere their blades had crossedA dying sailor tossedHis 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 landWith 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 boastsOf his mighty ships and gunsAnd the muster of his hosts,How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yoreWhen the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!James Jeffrey Roche.
Tell the story to your sonsOf the gallant days of yore,When the brig of seven gunsFought 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 fightIn 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 awayWaited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coastIn the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bringHome in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!
At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tideCame the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the townAnd 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 hereAs 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 strifeThe boarder's leader pressedForward of all the restChallenging life for life;But ere their blades had crossedA dying sailor tossedHis 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 landWith 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 boastsOf his mighty ships and gunsAnd the muster of his hosts,How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yoreWhen the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!
James Jeffrey Roche.
Three boats, loaded with dead and dying, were captured by the Americans, the survivors having escaped by jumping overboard and swimming ashore. At daybreak the whole British fleet moved in to attack, and Captain Reid was forced to scuttle his ship and abandon her.
Three boats, loaded with dead and dying, were captured by the Americans, the survivors having escaped by jumping overboard and swimming ashore. At daybreak the whole British fleet moved in to attack, and Captain Reid was forced to scuttle his ship and abandon her.
THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL
[September 26, 1814]
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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer!The moonbeams, like fine silver, shineUpon the blue Azores,As twilight pours her purple wineUpon those storied shores;The General Armstrong's flag of starsIn the harbor of FayalFlies forth, remote from thought of wars,Until the sunset call.No glistening guns in serried lineThe slender schooner boasts,A pivot and eight hearty ninesShall 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 fairTo-night as it was when,Glad in the gay September air,Reid laughed beside his men;On far Fayal the sun to-dayWas lord of all the skyAs when the General Armstrong lay,Our banner flung on high;But now there rests a holier lightThan theirs on land or sea:The splendor of our sailors' might,And glorious bravery.A moment, and the flag will sinkAs sinks the sun to restBeyond the billows' western brinkWhere towers the Eagle's nest,When round the azure harbor-headWhere sparkling ocean brims,Her British ensign streaming red,The brig Carnation swims.Ere with the sun her sails are setThe Rota frigate glidesAnd the great ship PlantagenetTo 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 PortugalStill flaunts her Blue-and-White;What cares their Floyd for PortugalOr 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 humTo mark their heightened speed.Fierce o'er their moonlit path there streamBright glares of crimson flame;Our muskets but an instant gleam,Yet leave them wounded, lame.They try a feeble, brief replyEre back their course is sped.Before our marksmanship they fly,Their living with their dead.Floyd swears upon his faith and allThe Armstrong shall be his;He scorns rebuke from Portugal,But not such enemies;So guns are charged with canisterAnd picked men go to fight:Brave hearts and doomed full many wereIn the Azores that night.From nine until the nick of twelveTheir boats are seen to throngWhere rocky islets slant and shelveSafe 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 reeksOf thrice a hundred men.Our rail is low, and there the foeCling 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-criesOur gallant Johnson stood;The British muskets snapt and spatTill Reid came in his wrath,His brow so pale with purpose thatIt 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 goodTill 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 setUpon the Armstrong's deck.Three hundred men their Admiral sentOur schooner's ways to mend:A hundred British sailors wentDown to a warrior's end.Two of our lads in death are red,But safe the flag above:God grant that never worse be spedThe fray for all we love!The General Armstrong lies beneathThe waves in far Fayal,But still his countrymen shall wreatheReid's name with laurels tall;The sun and moon are fair to seeAbove the blue Azores,But fairer far Reid's victoryBeside 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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer.Wallace Rice.
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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer!The moonbeams, like fine silver, shineUpon the blue Azores,As twilight pours her purple wineUpon those storied shores;The General Armstrong's flag of starsIn the harbor of FayalFlies forth, remote from thought of wars,Until the sunset call.No glistening guns in serried lineThe slender schooner boasts,A pivot and eight hearty ninesShall 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 fairTo-night as it was when,Glad in the gay September air,Reid laughed beside his men;On far Fayal the sun to-dayWas lord of all the skyAs when the General Armstrong lay,Our banner flung on high;But now there rests a holier lightThan theirs on land or sea:The splendor of our sailors' might,And glorious bravery.A moment, and the flag will sinkAs sinks the sun to restBeyond the billows' western brinkWhere towers the Eagle's nest,When round the azure harbor-headWhere sparkling ocean brims,Her British ensign streaming red,The brig Carnation swims.Ere with the sun her sails are setThe Rota frigate glidesAnd the great ship PlantagenetTo 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 PortugalStill flaunts her Blue-and-White;What cares their Floyd for PortugalOr 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 humTo mark their heightened speed.Fierce o'er their moonlit path there streamBright glares of crimson flame;Our muskets but an instant gleam,Yet leave them wounded, lame.They try a feeble, brief replyEre back their course is sped.Before our marksmanship they fly,Their living with their dead.Floyd swears upon his faith and allThe Armstrong shall be his;He scorns rebuke from Portugal,But not such enemies;So guns are charged with canisterAnd picked men go to fight:Brave hearts and doomed full many wereIn the Azores that night.From nine until the nick of twelveTheir boats are seen to throngWhere rocky islets slant and shelveSafe 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 reeksOf thrice a hundred men.Our rail is low, and there the foeCling 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-criesOur gallant Johnson stood;The British muskets snapt and spatTill Reid came in his wrath,His brow so pale with purpose thatIt 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 goodTill 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 setUpon the Armstrong's deck.Three hundred men their Admiral sentOur schooner's ways to mend:A hundred British sailors wentDown to a warrior's end.Two of our lads in death are red,But safe the flag above:God grant that never worse be spedThe fray for all we love!The General Armstrong lies beneathThe waves in far Fayal,But still his countrymen shall wreatheReid's name with laurels tall;The sun and moon are fair to seeAbove the blue Azores,But fairer far Reid's victoryBeside 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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer.Wallace Rice.
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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer!
The moonbeams, like fine silver, shineUpon the blue Azores,As twilight pours her purple wineUpon those storied shores;The General Armstrong's flag of starsIn the harbor of FayalFlies forth, remote from thought of wars,Until the sunset call.
No glistening guns in serried lineThe slender schooner boasts,A pivot and eight hearty ninesShall 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 fairTo-night as it was when,Glad in the gay September air,Reid laughed beside his men;On far Fayal the sun to-dayWas lord of all the skyAs when the General Armstrong lay,Our banner flung on high;But now there rests a holier lightThan theirs on land or sea:The splendor of our sailors' might,And glorious bravery.
A moment, and the flag will sinkAs sinks the sun to restBeyond the billows' western brinkWhere towers the Eagle's nest,When round the azure harbor-headWhere sparkling ocean brims,Her British ensign streaming red,The brig Carnation swims.
Ere with the sun her sails are setThe Rota frigate glidesAnd the great ship PlantagenetTo 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 PortugalStill flaunts her Blue-and-White;What cares their Floyd for PortugalOr 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 humTo mark their heightened speed.
Fierce o'er their moonlit path there streamBright glares of crimson flame;Our muskets but an instant gleam,Yet leave them wounded, lame.They try a feeble, brief replyEre back their course is sped.Before our marksmanship they fly,Their living with their dead.
Floyd swears upon his faith and allThe Armstrong shall be his;He scorns rebuke from Portugal,But not such enemies;So guns are charged with canisterAnd picked men go to fight:Brave hearts and doomed full many wereIn the Azores that night.
From nine until the nick of twelveTheir boats are seen to throngWhere rocky islets slant and shelveSafe 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 reeksOf thrice a hundred men.
Our rail is low, and there the foeCling 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-criesOur gallant Johnson stood;The British muskets snapt and spatTill Reid came in his wrath,His brow so pale with purpose thatIt 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 goodTill 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 setUpon the Armstrong's deck.
Three hundred men their Admiral sentOur schooner's ways to mend:A hundred British sailors wentDown to a warrior's end.Two of our lads in death are red,But safe the flag above:God grant that never worse be spedThe fray for all we love!
The General Armstrong lies beneathThe waves in far Fayal,But still his countrymen shall wreatheReid's name with laurels tall;The sun and moon are fair to seeAbove the blue Azores,But fairer far Reid's victoryBeside 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 ReidAnd the flag of his ship and crewAre brighter far than sea or starOr the heavens' red, white, and blue:So lift your voices once againFor the land we love so dear,For the fighting Captain and the menOf the Yankee Privateer.
Wallace Rice.
Major-General Andrew Jackson had been intrusted with the task of defending the South, and especially New Orleans, from the expected British invasion. On September 15, 1814, a British fleet and land force invested Fort Bowyer, which commanded the entrance to Mobile, but were beaten off and forced to retire, after a desperate struggle, in which one of the British ships was blown up.
Major-General Andrew Jackson had been intrusted with the task of defending the South, and especially New Orleans, from the expected British invasion. On September 15, 1814, a British fleet and land force invested Fort Bowyer, which commanded the entrance to Mobile, but were beaten off and forced to retire, after a desperate struggle, in which one of the British ships was blown up.
FORT BOWYER
[September 15, 1814]
Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowySurge, 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 expandedHigh o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,Proudly and fearless.Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missileBoasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shinesSparkling 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 palenessWhiten the blanch'd cheek?No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,Like their own shores, which mountain surges move notBreasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,Rallying they stand fast."Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proudQuails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neitherAwed us, nor conquer'd.Charles L. S. Jones.
Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowySurge, 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 expandedHigh o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,Proudly and fearless.Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missileBoasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shinesSparkling 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 palenessWhiten the blanch'd cheek?No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,Like their own shores, which mountain surges move notBreasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,Rallying they stand fast."Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proudQuails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neitherAwed us, nor conquer'd.Charles L. S. Jones.
Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowySurge, 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 expandedHigh o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,Proudly and fearless.
Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missileBoasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shinesSparkling 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 palenessWhiten the blanch'd cheek?
No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,Like their own shores, which mountain surges move notBreasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,Rallying they stand fast.
"Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proudQuails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neitherAwed us, nor conquer'd.
Charles L. S. Jones.
Jackson hastened to New Orleans, and reached there just as a great British fleet appeared in the offing. He determined to attack the enemy as soon as they started to land, and on the night of December 23 he drove in their advance guard. Then he intrenched his little army, and on January 8, 1815, was attacked by the full British force, seven thousand strong. Their advance was checked by the steady fire of Jackson's riflemen, and the enemy was finally routed with a loss of over two thousand. The American loss was eight killed and thirteen wounded.
Jackson hastened to New Orleans, and reached there just as a great British fleet appeared in the offing. He determined to attack the enemy as soon as they started to land, and on the night of December 23 he drove in their advance guard. Then he intrenched his little army, and on January 8, 1815, was attacked by the full British force, seven thousand strong. Their advance was checked by the steady fire of Jackson's riflemen, and the enemy was finally routed with a loss of over two thousand. The American loss was eight killed and thirteen wounded.
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS
[January 8, 1815]
Here, in my rude log cabin,Few poorer men there beAmong the mountain rangesOf 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 CarrollTo fight at New Orleans.You say you'd like to hear meThe stirring story tell,Of those who stood the battleAnd those who fighting fell.Short work to count our losses—We stood and dropped the foeAs easily as by firelightMen shoot the buck or doe.And while they fell by hundredsUpon the bloody plain,Of us, fourteen were woundedAnd only eight were slain.The eighth of January,Before the break of day,Our raw and hasty leviesWere brought into array.No cotton-bales before us—Some fool that falsehood told;Before us was an earthworkBuilt from the swampy mouldAnd there we stood in silence,And waited with a frown.To greet with bloody welcomeThe bull-dogs of the Crown.The heavy fog of morningStill hid the plain from sight,When came a thread of scarletMarked faintly in the white.We fired a single cannon,And as its thunders rolled,The mist before us liftedIn many a heavy fold—The mist before us liftedAnd in their bravery fineCame rushing to their ruinThe fearless British line.Then from our waiting cannonLeaped forth the deadly flame,To meet the advancing columnsThat swift and steady came.The thirty-twos of CrowleyAnd Bluchi's twenty-fourTo Spotts's eighteen-poundersResponded with their roar,Sending the grape-shot deadlyThat marked its pathway plain,And paved the road it travelledWith corpses of the slain.Our rifles firmly grasping,And heedless of the din,We stood in silence waitingFor orders to begin.Our fingers on the triggers,Our hearts, with anger stirred,Grew still more fierce and eagerAs 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 usOur volleys on them pour—Have heard our joyous riflesRing sharply through the roar,And seen their foremost columnsMelt hastily awayAs snow in mountain gorgesBefore the floods of May.They soon re-formed their columns,And, mid the fatal rainWe never ceased to hurtle,Came to their work again.The Forty-fourth is with them,That first its laurels wonWith stout old AbercrombieBeneath an eastern sun.It rushes to the battle,And, though within the rearIts leader is a laggard,It shows no signs of fear.It did not need its colonel,For soon there came insteadAn eagle-eyed commander,And on its march he led.'Twas Pakenham in person,The leader of the field;I knew it by the cheeringThat loudly round him pealed;And by his quick, sharp movementWe felt his heart was stirred,As when at SalamancaHe led the fighting Third.I raised my rifle quickly,I sighted at his breast,God save the gallant leaderAnd take him to his rest!I did not draw the trigger,I could not for my life.So calm he sat his chargerAmid the deadly strife,That in my fiercest momentA 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 bleedingAnother 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 waverBefore 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 courageThat marked your sires of old!"His voice as yet was ringing,When, quick as light, there cameThe roaring of a cannon,And earth seemed all aflame.Who causes thus the thunderThe doom of men to speak?It is the Baratarian,The fearless Dominique.Down through the marshalled ScotsmenThe step of death is heard,And by the fierce tornadoFalls half the Ninety-third.The smoke passed slowly upwardAnd, as it soared on high,I saw the brave commanderIn dying anguish lie.They bear him from the battleWho never fled the foe;Unmoved by death around themHis bearers softly go.In vain their care, so gentle,Fades earth and all its scenes;The man of SalamancaLies dead at New Orleans.But where were his lieutenants?Had they in terror fled?No!Keane was sorely woundedAnd Gibbs as good as dead.Brave Wilkinson commanding,A major of brigade,The shattered force to rallyA 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 invadersWere soon to leave our shore.We rested on our riflesAnd talked about the fight,When came a sudden murmurLike fire from left to right;We turned and saw our chieftain,And then, good friend of mine,You should have heard the cheeringThat rang along the line.For well our men rememberedHow 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 themWithin the evening hour,That red night in DecemberAnd made us feel our power.In answer to our shoutingFire 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 AlabamaHad done their work on him;But spite of that and fasting,And hours of sleepless care,The soul of Andrew JacksonShone forth in glory there.Thomas Dunn English.
Here, in my rude log cabin,Few poorer men there beAmong the mountain rangesOf 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 CarrollTo fight at New Orleans.You say you'd like to hear meThe stirring story tell,Of those who stood the battleAnd those who fighting fell.Short work to count our losses—We stood and dropped the foeAs easily as by firelightMen shoot the buck or doe.And while they fell by hundredsUpon the bloody plain,Of us, fourteen were woundedAnd only eight were slain.The eighth of January,Before the break of day,Our raw and hasty leviesWere brought into array.No cotton-bales before us—Some fool that falsehood told;Before us was an earthworkBuilt from the swampy mouldAnd there we stood in silence,And waited with a frown.To greet with bloody welcomeThe bull-dogs of the Crown.The heavy fog of morningStill hid the plain from sight,When came a thread of scarletMarked faintly in the white.We fired a single cannon,And as its thunders rolled,The mist before us liftedIn many a heavy fold—The mist before us liftedAnd in their bravery fineCame rushing to their ruinThe fearless British line.Then from our waiting cannonLeaped forth the deadly flame,To meet the advancing columnsThat swift and steady came.The thirty-twos of CrowleyAnd Bluchi's twenty-fourTo Spotts's eighteen-poundersResponded with their roar,Sending the grape-shot deadlyThat marked its pathway plain,And paved the road it travelledWith corpses of the slain.Our rifles firmly grasping,And heedless of the din,We stood in silence waitingFor orders to begin.Our fingers on the triggers,Our hearts, with anger stirred,Grew still more fierce and eagerAs 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 usOur volleys on them pour—Have heard our joyous riflesRing sharply through the roar,And seen their foremost columnsMelt hastily awayAs snow in mountain gorgesBefore the floods of May.They soon re-formed their columns,And, mid the fatal rainWe never ceased to hurtle,Came to their work again.The Forty-fourth is with them,That first its laurels wonWith stout old AbercrombieBeneath an eastern sun.It rushes to the battle,And, though within the rearIts leader is a laggard,It shows no signs of fear.It did not need its colonel,For soon there came insteadAn eagle-eyed commander,And on its march he led.'Twas Pakenham in person,The leader of the field;I knew it by the cheeringThat loudly round him pealed;And by his quick, sharp movementWe felt his heart was stirred,As when at SalamancaHe led the fighting Third.I raised my rifle quickly,I sighted at his breast,God save the gallant leaderAnd take him to his rest!I did not draw the trigger,I could not for my life.So calm he sat his chargerAmid the deadly strife,That in my fiercest momentA 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 bleedingAnother 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 waverBefore 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 courageThat marked your sires of old!"His voice as yet was ringing,When, quick as light, there cameThe roaring of a cannon,And earth seemed all aflame.Who causes thus the thunderThe doom of men to speak?It is the Baratarian,The fearless Dominique.Down through the marshalled ScotsmenThe step of death is heard,And by the fierce tornadoFalls half the Ninety-third.The smoke passed slowly upwardAnd, as it soared on high,I saw the brave commanderIn dying anguish lie.They bear him from the battleWho never fled the foe;Unmoved by death around themHis bearers softly go.In vain their care, so gentle,Fades earth and all its scenes;The man of SalamancaLies dead at New Orleans.But where were his lieutenants?Had they in terror fled?No!Keane was sorely woundedAnd Gibbs as good as dead.Brave Wilkinson commanding,A major of brigade,The shattered force to rallyA 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 invadersWere soon to leave our shore.We rested on our riflesAnd talked about the fight,When came a sudden murmurLike fire from left to right;We turned and saw our chieftain,And then, good friend of mine,You should have heard the cheeringThat rang along the line.For well our men rememberedHow 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 themWithin the evening hour,That red night in DecemberAnd made us feel our power.In answer to our shoutingFire 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 AlabamaHad done their work on him;But spite of that and fasting,And hours of sleepless care,The soul of Andrew JacksonShone forth in glory there.Thomas Dunn English.
Here, in my rude log cabin,Few poorer men there beAmong the mountain rangesOf 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 CarrollTo fight at New Orleans.
You say you'd like to hear meThe stirring story tell,Of those who stood the battleAnd those who fighting fell.Short work to count our losses—We stood and dropped the foeAs easily as by firelightMen shoot the buck or doe.And while they fell by hundredsUpon the bloody plain,Of us, fourteen were woundedAnd only eight were slain.
The eighth of January,Before the break of day,Our raw and hasty leviesWere brought into array.No cotton-bales before us—Some fool that falsehood told;Before us was an earthworkBuilt from the swampy mouldAnd there we stood in silence,And waited with a frown.To greet with bloody welcomeThe bull-dogs of the Crown.
The heavy fog of morningStill hid the plain from sight,When came a thread of scarletMarked faintly in the white.We fired a single cannon,And as its thunders rolled,The mist before us liftedIn many a heavy fold—The mist before us liftedAnd in their bravery fineCame rushing to their ruinThe fearless British line.
Then from our waiting cannonLeaped forth the deadly flame,To meet the advancing columnsThat swift and steady came.The thirty-twos of CrowleyAnd Bluchi's twenty-fourTo Spotts's eighteen-poundersResponded with their roar,Sending the grape-shot deadlyThat marked its pathway plain,And paved the road it travelledWith corpses of the slain.
Our rifles firmly grasping,And heedless of the din,We stood in silence waitingFor orders to begin.Our fingers on the triggers,Our hearts, with anger stirred,Grew still more fierce and eagerAs 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 usOur volleys on them pour—Have heard our joyous riflesRing sharply through the roar,And seen their foremost columnsMelt hastily awayAs snow in mountain gorgesBefore the floods of May.
They soon re-formed their columns,And, mid the fatal rainWe never ceased to hurtle,Came to their work again.The Forty-fourth is with them,That first its laurels wonWith stout old AbercrombieBeneath an eastern sun.It rushes to the battle,And, though within the rearIts leader is a laggard,It shows no signs of fear.
It did not need its colonel,For soon there came insteadAn eagle-eyed commander,And on its march he led.'Twas Pakenham in person,The leader of the field;I knew it by the cheeringThat loudly round him pealed;And by his quick, sharp movementWe felt his heart was stirred,As when at SalamancaHe led the fighting Third.
I raised my rifle quickly,I sighted at his breast,God save the gallant leaderAnd take him to his rest!I did not draw the trigger,I could not for my life.So calm he sat his chargerAmid the deadly strife,That in my fiercest momentA 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 bleedingAnother 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 waverBefore 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 courageThat marked your sires of old!"
His voice as yet was ringing,When, quick as light, there cameThe roaring of a cannon,And earth seemed all aflame.Who causes thus the thunderThe doom of men to speak?It is the Baratarian,The fearless Dominique.Down through the marshalled ScotsmenThe step of death is heard,And by the fierce tornadoFalls half the Ninety-third.
The smoke passed slowly upwardAnd, as it soared on high,I saw the brave commanderIn dying anguish lie.They bear him from the battleWho never fled the foe;Unmoved by death around themHis bearers softly go.In vain their care, so gentle,Fades earth and all its scenes;The man of SalamancaLies dead at New Orleans.
But where were his lieutenants?Had they in terror fled?No!Keane was sorely woundedAnd Gibbs as good as dead.Brave Wilkinson commanding,A major of brigade,The shattered force to rallyA 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 invadersWere soon to leave our shore.We rested on our riflesAnd talked about the fight,When came a sudden murmurLike fire from left to right;We turned and saw our chieftain,And then, good friend of mine,You should have heard the cheeringThat rang along the line.
For well our men rememberedHow 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 themWithin the evening hour,That red night in DecemberAnd made us feel our power.
In answer to our shoutingFire 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 AlabamaHad done their work on him;But spite of that and fasting,And hours of sleepless care,The soul of Andrew JacksonShone forth in glory there.
Thomas Dunn English.
JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS