| |
| THERE’S a blare of bugles blowing | |
| And a hum of rumbling drums; | |
| Red upon the green plain flowing, | |
| See, the British army comes! | |
| There are regiments in scarlet, | 5 |
| Renegade and negro varlet, | |
| Rolling on; | |
| There are regiments half savage | |
| That had aided Ross to ravage | |
| Washington. | 10 |
| |
| Broad their banners forth are streaming | |
| In the January sun, | |
| Bright their bayonets are gleaming | |
| Over every deadly gun; | |
| Bold marine and bolder seaman | 15 |
| Who had fought like any demon | |
| On the main; | |
| Thousands more black with the pillage | |
| Gleaned in many a hopeless village | |
| Back in Spain. | 20 |
| |
| Here are Wellesley’s trusted henchmen, | |
| Fiendish old Peninsulars, | |
| Stained with blood of slaughtered Frenchmen | |
| Through the long and bitter wars; | |
| Rank and file as ripe with evil, | 25 |
| Rape, and rapine as the devil | |
| And his dam; | |
| At their head that hero-Briton | |
| On whose brow success was written, | |
| Pakenham. | 30 |
| |
| There are sixty warships heaving | |
| On the Mississippi sound, | |
| Near ten thousand warriors weaving | |
| Through that tufted, swampy ground, | |
| There are breastworks just before them— | 35 |
| One bold charge and they’ll be o’er them, | |
| High or low; | |
| Then an hour of British shooting | |
| And a week of British looting, | |
| Death, and woe. | 40 |
| |
| But the frontiersmen with Jackson | |
| See there’s powder in the pan, | |
| They have never turned their backs on | |
| Savage beast or savage man; | |
| Craven Spain at Pensacola | 45 |
| And the Creeks of Tallapoosa | |
| Know their glance, | |
| Know the coonskin cap and rifle | |
| And the bullet clouds that stifle | |
| All advance. | 50 |
| |
| For the fourth time now the Briton | |
| Since his coming in the night | |
| Is to see his bravest smitten | |
| By the lightnings of our might: | |
| When our gunboats meet their barges; | 55 |
| On the night our army charges | |
| Into flame; | |
| When their cannon are dismounted— | |
| Thrice they’ve learned we can be counted | |
| On for aim. | 60 |
| |
| Yet they come in long ranks steady | |
| To take up the battle brunt, | |
| With their courage tried and ready, | |
| Gallant officers in front; | |
| Near the river Rennie’s soldiers | 65 |
| With their muskets on their shoulders | |
| Hold their path; | |
| ’Gainst our right he leads his raiders— | |
| Welcome now the bold invaders | |
| With our wrath! | 70 |
| |
| On our first redoubt they’re dashing, | |
| Rank on rank they rush a-swarm: | |
| Down their files our cannon crashing | |
| Hurl an extirpating storm; | |
| Thunder-stricken and astounded | 75 |
| They are hurled back crushed and wounded | |
| By our lead, | |
| Patterson in wide swaths mows them, | |
| Humphrey’s grape in huge gusts blows them— | |
| Rennie’s dead. | 80 |
| |
| Steadily, not one a coward, | |
| Gibbs’s men charge with a will; | |
| Steadily our shrapnel’s showered— | |
| They are coming closer still; | |
| There Lafitte’s bold men are aiming, | 85 |
| All our batteries are flaming, | |
| For their fall; | |
| But our hail of grape despising, | |
| On they come, their broad front rising | |
| At the call. | 90 |
| |
| Every rifleman with longing | |
| Gazes on the lines in red | |
| As they come in columns thronging; | |
| But the word has not been said: | |
| At two hundred yards, or nearer, | 95 |
| Sounds the signal for each hearer, | |
| “Tennessee!” | |
| Hurled to hell in quick disorder, | |
| Britons leave a crimson border | |
| As they flee. | 100 |
| |
| Pakenham rides up to rally— | |
| He is wounded in the arm, | |
| Gibbs shall never from that sally | |
| Speed again to war’s alarm, | |
| Quick to aid Keane’s men are coming— | 105 |
| Hear our rifles, ceaseless humming!— | |
| Keane is slain; | |
| Spreads the panic’s fitful pallor— | |
| Pakenham in all his valor | |
| Low is lain. | 110 |
| |
| There ’s no blare of bugles blowing, | |
| Not a hum of rumbling drum. | |
| Bitter is their overthrowing, | |
| Thousands lie forever dumb. | |
| With raw levies to defend us | 115 |
| We have won the odds tremendous, | |
| One to three. | |
| Woe to him who dares to trifle | |
| With the ’coonskin cap and rifle, | |
| Tennessee! | 120 |
| |
| Talluschatches, Talladega, | |
| These our General’s victories, | |
| Bowyer’s Fort, and Tohopeka— | |
| Now New Orleans is his. | |
| Silence! then a noise of cheering— | 125 |
| Louder—louder—he is nearing— | |
| Jackson comes! | |
| Hear the song of triumph growing, | |
| Hear the blare of bugles blowing, | |
| Hear the drums! | 130 |
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