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.