dots-menu
×

Home  »  The American National Song-Book  »  Joseph Hutton (1787–1828)

William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.

The Field of Orleans

Joseph Hutton (1787–1828)

FAREWELL, awhile, domestic charms,

My home and country urge to arms,

Mid danger’s ranks, and war’s alarms,

Which stern invaders spread;

And if, perchance, a fatal bourne

Forbid the soldier’s safe return,

A nation’s gratitude shall mourn

And honour crown the dead!

Farewell the gathering of the year;

Release the share and grasp the spear;

Droop their full ears the swelling grain,

The verdant grass, the luscious cane;

The harvest of another soil

Demands each nerve in manly toil;

Where blood alone may compost yield,

And brand and bayonet reap the field.

Delight not me the meed of fame,

The fleeting breath of proud acclaim,

Or warrior’s wreath, or valiant name,—

For other joys are mine;

I court not battle’s awful brunt,

Nor honours, in the dareful front;

But, my dear country, call’st thou aid,

Behold, I grasp the freeman’s blade,

And be my service thine!

*****

And nearer now the foemen drew,

They press thy borders, Bienvenu,

Stern as the angry winds that blew

Across thy startled bed!

And dark and dismal was the night,

When first they struck the deepening fight;

Save when anon, a mournful star

Stream’d feebly from its sphere afar:

The troops a cloud—their weapons steel’d,

The brightest starlight of the field,

A fearful vision spread!

Silent they moved along the lake,

No war-sound bids the slumbering wake,

Nor dashing oars the waters break,

To rouse the unconscious state;

But from her hills of living green,

Columbia’s guardian maid had seen,

She roused at once to intervene,

And save her sons from fate!

Who, rising o’er the watery bed,

To taint the soil with hostile tread,

The margin bold now climbs?

A warrior stern, who sterner band,

To conquest oft, in Spanish land,

Had led in former times!

Long shall Iberia feel the aid

She gather’d from his biting blade,

When, urged by bold Napoleon,

Invading France came madly on.

And mingling now the conflict, rang

Helmet and spear, the battle clang.

But wherefore, warrior, art thou here,

Feels thy bold heart no touch of fear,

When freemen seize the guardian spear,

Their country to defend?

Naught may thy former deeds avail,

No more thy hope shall conquest hail,

The laurels of thy brow grow pale,

Prophetic of thy end!

*****

That time, full many a widow’d dame

And orphan shall with anguish name,

And grief the burning tear-drop claim,

Of every hope deprived!

Whose breast stern war’s resistless aim

With misery hath rived!

And mark the Caledonian maid,

Of glowing cheek, of auburn braid,

Blue Cheviot’s sloping height above,

She rolls her soft blue eyes of love

Along the western sky-bound wave,

Anxious to view the bark so brave,

That bears her soldier home;

But, ah! the unrelenting glave

Has sent him to an early grave,

No tender friend to soothe or save

From carnage and the tomb!

On Mississippi’s side he fell,

Whose rapids roar’d his dying knell!

Glassy and dim that manly eye

Which lighted love and ecstasy:

Once flamed with hope of proud renown,

And look’d the fear of danger down!

The last thought of his throbbing breast,

Turn’d to the maid he erst had press’d,

When with fond hope supremely bless’d,

No fields of conflict known:

But, Hope, thou art a baseless dream,

That wakest to life thy mimic theme;

For mark the change!—the big tears trace

Their passage down his pallid face,

He heaves the parting groan!

Stern War! What fateful deeds are thine,

With dripping blood thy garments shine,

And Ruin, Rage, with thee combine,

Whose eyes wild terrors flash!

The Horrors form thy dreadful train,

And Cruelty conducts thy wain,

Of bleeding sinews is the rein,

Of clotted braids each courser’s mane,

Of scorpion fangs the lash!

The wheels thy thirsty fury draws

O’er all divine and human laws;

Dashing through each devoted realm

Those waves which roll but to o’erwhelm;

And like the flood which whilom rose,

Sweep from the world whate’er oppose!

Such is thy worth, disastrous War,

And such thy ruins, hurl’d afar,

That, when the glorious day may be,

For Fate to strike his spear through thee,

Thy eulogy’s thy victim’s groans,

Thy monument their bleaching bones!