Chapter II: The Second War with England (3)

From "Ode Written during the War with America, 1814"

When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay
The thunderbolt aside,
And, twining olives with her laurel crown,
Rest in the Bower of Peace?

Not long may this unnatural strife endure
Beyond the Atlantic deep;
Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,
And insolent in wrong,
Afflict with their misrule the indignant land
Where Washington hath left
His awful memory
A light for after-times!
Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny
In 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 lay
The 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.

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 tolls
For 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 sons
Of the gallant days of yore,
When the brig of seven guns
Fought 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 fight
In 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 away
Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.
There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast
In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;
There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring
Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!

At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide
Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,
And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town
And 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 here
As 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 strife
The boarder's leader pressed
Forward of all the rest
Challenging life for life;
But ere their blades had crossed
A dying sailor tossed
His 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 land
With 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 boasts
Of his mighty ships and guns
And the muster of his hosts,
How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore
When 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.

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 Reid
And the flag of his ship and crew
Are brighter far than sea or star
Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:
So lift your voices once again
For the land we love so dear,
For the fighting Captain and the men
Of the Yankee Privateer!_

The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine
Upon the blue Azores,
As twilight pours her purple wine
Upon those storied shores;
The General Armstrong's flag of stars
In the harbor of Fayal
Flies forth, remote from thought of wars,
Until the sunset call.

No glistening guns in serried line
The slender schooner boasts,
A pivot and eight hearty nines
Shall 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 fair
To-night as it was when,
Glad in the gay September air,
Reid laughed beside his men;
On far Fayal the sun to-day
Was lord of all the sky
As when the General Armstrong lay,
Our banner flung on high;
But now there rests a holier light
Than theirs on land or sea:
The splendor of our sailors' might,
And glorious bravery.

A moment, and the flag will sink
As sinks the sun to rest
Beyond the billows' western brink
Where towers the Eagle's nest,
When round the azure harbor-head
Where sparkling ocean brims,
Her British ensign streaming red,
The brig Carnation swims.

Ere with the sun her sails are set
The Rota frigate glides
And the great ship Plantagenet
To 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 Portugal
Still flaunts her Blue-and-White;
What cares their Floyd for Portugal
Or 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 hum
To mark their heightened speed.

Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream
Bright glares of crimson flame;
Our muskets but an instant gleam,
Yet leave them wounded, lame.
They try a feeble, brief reply
Ere back their course is sped.
Before our marksmanship they fly,
Their living with their dead.

Floyd swears upon his faith and all
The Armstrong shall be his;
He scorns rebuke from Portugal,
But not such enemies;
So guns are charged with canister
And picked men go to fight:
Brave hearts and doomed full many were
In the Azores that night.

From nine until the nick of twelve
Their boats are seen to throng
Where rocky islets slant and shelve
Safe 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 reeks
Of thrice a hundred men.

Our rail is low, and there the foe
Cling 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-cries
Our gallant Johnson stood;
The British muskets snapt and spat
Till Reid came in his wrath,
His brow so pale with purpose that
It 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 good
Till 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 set
Upon the Armstrong's deck.

Three hundred men their Admiral sent
Our schooner's ways to mend:
A hundred British sailors went
Down to a warrior's end.
Two of our lads in death are red,
But safe the flag above:
God grant that never worse be sped
The fray for all we love!

The General Armstrong lies beneath
The waves in far Fayal,
But still his countrymen shall wreathe
Reid's name with laurels tall;
The sun and moon are fair to see
Above the blue Azores,
But fairer far Reid's victory
Beside 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 Reid
And the flag of his ship and crew
Are brighter far than sea or star
Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:
So lift your voices once again
For the land we love so dear,
For the fighting Captain and the men
Of 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.

FORT BOWYER

[September 15, 1814]

Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,
Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowy
Surge, 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 expanded
High o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,
Proudly and fearless.

Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile
Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,
Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines
Sparkling 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 paleness
Whiten the blanch'd cheek?

No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,
Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not
Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,
Rallying they stand fast.

"Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proud
Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"
Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neither
Awed 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.

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS

[January 8, 1815]

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 dropped the foe
As easily as by firelight
Men shoot the buck or doe.
And while they fell by hundreds
Upon the bloody plain,
Of us, fourteen were wounded
And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,
Before the break of day,
Our raw and hasty levies
Were brought into array.
No cotton-bales before us--
Some fool that falsehood told;
Before us was an earthwork
Built from the swampy mould
And there we stood in silence,
And waited with a frown.
To greet with bloody welcome
The bull-dogs 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 rolled,
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 cannon
Leaped forth the deadly flame,
To meet the advancing columns
That swift and steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crowley
And Bluchi's twenty-four
To Spotts's eighteen-pounders
Responded with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly
That marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travelled
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 stirred,
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 marked 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 re-formed their columns,
And, mid the fatal rain
We never ceased to hurtle,
Came to their work again.
The Forty-fourth is with them,
That first its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an eastern sun.
It rushes to the battle,
And, though within the rear
Its leader is a laggard,
It shows no signs of fear.

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 pealed;
And by his quick, sharp movement
We felt his heart was stirred,
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 scale the breastworks,
And drive them from their hold,
And show the stainless courage
That marked your sires of old!"

His voice as yet was ringing,
When, quick as light, there came
The roaring of a cannon,
And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder
The doom of men to speak?
It is the Baratarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down through the marshalled 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 shattered force to rally
A 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 invaders
Were soon to leave our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talked about the fight,
When came a sudden murmur
Like fire from left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain,
And then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the cheering
That rang along the line.

For well our men remembered
How little, when they came,
Had they but native courage,
And trust in Jackson's name;
How through the day he labored,
How kept the vigils still,
Till discipline controlled us--
A stronger power than will;
And how he hurled us at them
Within the evening hour,
That red night in December
And made us feel our power.

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.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding,
Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies;
Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosing
Scarlet for England.

Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightnings
Search out our earthworks, silent and portentous.
Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossing
Their lines spring forward.

Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen,
Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateers-men,
Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnel
Shriek through their columns.

Shattered in fragments, thus their right is riven;
But on our left a deadlier bolt is speeding:
Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet defeated,
Charge in their valor.

Closing their files, our cannon fire disdaining,
Dauntless they come with vict'ry on their standards;
Then slowly rise the rifles of our marksmen,
Tennessee hunters.

Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling bullets
Lay them in windrows, war's infernal harvest.
High through the onslaught Tennessee is shouting,
Joying in battle.

Pakenham falls there, Keane and his Highlanders
Close from the centre, hopeless in their courage;
Backward they stagger, dying and disabled,
Gloriously routed.

Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow louder:
War clouds sweep back in January breezes,
Showing the dreadful proof of the great triumph
God hath vouchsafed us.

That gallant war-host, England's best and bravest,
Met by raw levies, scores against its hundreds,
Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's weeping,
Reddening the meadows.

Freed are our States from European tyrants:
Lift then your voices for the little army
Led by our battle-loving Andrew Jackson,
Blest of Jehovah.

WALLACE RICE.

The British were permitted to retire unmolested to their ships,
and the sails of that mighty fleet were soon fading away along
the horizon. Neither victor nor vanquished knew that a treaty
of peace had been signed at Ghent two weeks before, and that
the battle need never have been fought.

TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS

Hail sons of generous valor,
Who now embattled stand,
To wield the brand of strife and blood,
For Freedom and the land.
And hail to him your laurelled chief,
Around whose trophied name
A nation's gratitude has twined
The wreath of deathless fame.

Now round that gallant leader
Your iron phalanx form,
And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks,
Your bosoms to the storm.
Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls,
Its fury shall be low,
For justice guides the warrior's steel,
And vengeance strikes the blow.

High o'er the gleaming columns,
The bannered star appears,
And proud amid its martial band,
His crest the eagle rears.
And long as patriot valor's arm
Shall win the battle's prize,
That star shall beam triumphantly,
That eagle seek the skies.

Then on, ye daring spirits,
To danger's tumults now,
The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown,
To grace the victor's brow;
And they who for their country die,
Shall fill an honored grave;
For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
And beauty weeps the brave.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Prominent among the forces under Jackson was a brigade of eight
hundred Kentucky riflemen, commanded by General John Coffee.
They had marched eight hundred miles through a wilderness,
having covered the last hundred miles in less than two days--a
march almost unequalled in history. Jackson spoke of this
brigade as the right arm of his army.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,
Who grace this famous city,
Just listen, if you've time to spare,
While I rehearse a ditty;
And for the opportunity
Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For 'tis but seldom that you see
A hunter from Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger;
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger:
And if a daring foe annoys,
Whate'er his strength or force is,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
Are Alligator-horses.

I s'pose you've read it in the prints,
How Pakenham attempted
To make old Hickory Jackson wince,
But soon his schemes repented;
For we, with rifles ready cock'd,
Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flock'd
The hunters of Kentucky.

I s'pose you've heard how New Orleans
Is famed for wealth and beauty;
They've gals of every hue, it seems,
From snowy white to sooty:
So Pakenham he made his brags
If he in fight was lucky,
He'd have their gals and cotton bags,
In spite of Old Kentucky.

But Jackson he was wide awake,
And wasn't scared at trifles,
For well he knew what aim we take
With our Kentucky rifles;
So he led us down to Cypress Swamp,
The ground was low and mucky;
There stood John Bull in martial pomp--
But here was Old Kentucky.

We raised a bank to hide our breasts,
Not that we thought of dying,
But then we always like to rest,
Unless the game is flying:
Behind it stood our little force--
None wish'd it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse
And half an alligator.

They didn't let our patience tire
Before they show'd their faces;
We didn't choose to waste our fire,
But snugly kept our places;
And when so near we saw them wink,
We thought it time to stop 'em,
It would have done you good, I think,
To see Kentuckians drop 'em.

They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight,
When lead was all their booty,
And so they wisely took to flight,
And left us all the beauty.
And now, if danger e'er annoys,
Remember what our trade is;
Just send for us Kentucky boys,
And we'll protect you, ladies:
Oh! Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

Another useless action, but a most remarkable one, was fought
by the famous old Constitution, near Madeira, on February 20,
1815. On the afternoon of that day she sighted and overhauled
the British 32-gun frigate Cyane and the 20-gun sloop Levant.
She attacked them simultaneously, and after a fierce fight
compelled them both to surrender.

THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT

[February 20, 1815]

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew--
Constitution, where ye bound for?
Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be had
Acrost the Western ocean.

Our captain was married in Boston town
And sailed next day to sea;
For all must go when the State says so;
Blow high, blow low, sailed we.

"Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift
When my home-bound pennant flies?
The rarest that be on land or sea
It shall be my lady's prize."

"There's never a prize on sea or land
Could bring such joy to me
As my true love sound and homeward bound
With a king's ship under his lee."

The Western ocean is wide and deep,
And wild its tempests blow,
But bravely rides "Old Ironsides,"
A-cruising to and fro.

We cruised to the east and we cruised to north,
And southing far went we,
And at last off Cape de Verd we raised
Two frigates sailing free.

Oh, God made man, and man made ships,
But God makes very few
Like him who sailed our ship that day,
And fought her, one to two.

He gained the weather-gage of both,
He held them both a-lee;
And gun for gun, till set of sun,
He spoke them fair and free;

Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail,
And ship, and sea, and shore,
And our only aim was the bursting flame
And the hidden cannon's roar.

Then a long rift in the mist showed up
The stout Cyane, close-hauled
To swing in our wake and our quarter rake,
And a boasting Briton bawled:

"Starboard and larboard, we've got him fast
Where his heels won't take him through;
Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,--
Ho, Yankee, which will you do?"

We did not luff and we did not wear,
But braced our topsails back,
Till the sternway drew us fair and true
Broadsides athwart her track.

Athwart her track and across her bows
We raked her fore and aft,
And out of the fight and into the night
Drifted the beaten craft.

The slow Levant came up too late;
No need had we to stir;
Her decks we swept with fire, and kept
The flies from troubling her.

We raked her again, and her flag came down,--
The haughtiest flag that floats,--
And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs,
With never a bark in their throats.

With never a bark and never a bite,
But only an oath to break,
As we squared away for Praya Bay
With our prizes in our wake.

Parole they gave and parole they broke,
What matters the cowardly cheat,
If the captain's bride was satisfied
With the one prize laid at her feet?

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew--
Constitution, where ye bound for?
Wherever the British prizes be,
Though it's one to two, or one to three,--
"Old Ironsides" means victory,
Acrost the Western ocean.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

News of the peace did not reach America until February 11,
1815. It was hailed with rejoicing everywhere.

SEA AND LAND VICTORIES

With half the Western world at stake,
See Perry on the midland lake,
The unequal combat dare;
Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs,
He met the foe and made him ours,
And closed the savage war.

Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain,
In ships outnumbered, guns, and men,
Saw dangers thick increase;
His trust in God and virtue's cause
He conquer'd in the lion's jaws,
And led the way to peace.

To sing each valiant hero's name
Whose deeds have swelled the files of fame,
Requires immortal powers;
Columbia's warriors never yield
To equal force by sea or field,
Her eagle never cowers.

Long as Niagara's cataract roars
Or Erie laves our Northern shores,
Great Brown, thy fame shall rise;
Outnumber'd by a veteran host
Of conquering heroes, Britain's boast--
Conquest was there thy prize.

At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band,
Where gallant Macomb held command,
The unequal host oppose;
Provost confounded, vanquished flies,
Convinced that numbers won't suffice
Where Freemen are the foes.

Our songs to noblest strains we'll raise
While we attempt thy matchless praise,
Carolina's godlike son;
While Mississippi rolls his flood,
Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood,
The palm shall be thine own.

At Orleans--lo! a savage band,
In countless numbers gain the strand,
"Beauty and spoil" the word--
There Jackson with his fearless few,
The invincibles by thousands slew,
And dire destruction poured.

O Britain! when the tale is told
Of Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled,
Should grief and madness rise,
Remember God, the avenger, reigns,
Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains,
And Hampton's female cries.

ODE TO PEACE

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world,
And bid our pains and sorrows cease;
Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd,
And may we hail thy coming, peace!

For long enough has ruin stalk'd,
With force and terror o'er our earth;
Around them hideous spectres walk'd,
And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth.

Ah! banish'd from these happy skies,
By thee, be soon these boding stars,
Which erring made mankind arise,
To deeds of sin, to blood and wars.

Philadelphia, 1816.