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.