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“The War of 1812”broke out thirty years after the American Revolution and lasted until mutual ratifications of the Treaty of Ghent in 1814. Often called“the last war with Great Britain”, it was largely derived from the French Revolutionary (1792—1799) and Napoleonic Wars (1799—1815). It was a“small war”, but it had shaped the American identity, as American had finally decided to be completely separated and stepped upon its self-isolation until its entry into World War I. A great number of American patriots and their followers wrote verses about this historic event. The first three excerpted,“The‘United States’and‘Macedonian’”(1812),“The Wasp's Frolic”(1813), and“Yankee Thunders”(1813), all anonymous, are selected from various sources, written roughly at the beginning and during the War.
The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled,
While the silver-tipt surges in low homage curled,
Flashing bright round the bow of Decatur's brave bark,
In contest, an“eagle”—in chasing a“lark”.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
All canvas expanded to woo the coy gale,
The ship cleared for action, in chase of a sail;
The foemen in view, every bosom beats high,
All eager for conquest, or ready to die.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly.
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
Now havoc stands ready, with optics of flame,
And battle-hounds“strain on the start”for the game;
The blood demons rise on the surge for their prey,
While Pity, rejected, awaits the dread fray.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
The gay floating streamers of Britain appear,
Waving light on the breeze as the stranger we near;
And now could the quick-sighted Yankee discern
“ Macedonian ,”emblazoned at large on her stern.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
She waited our approach, and the contest began,
But to waste ammunition is no Yankee plan;
In awful suspense every match was withheld,
While the bull-dogs of Britain incessantly yelled.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
Unawed by her thunders, alongside we came,
While the foe seemed enwrapped in a mantle of flame;
When, prompt to the word, such a flood we return,
That Neptune aghast, thought his trident would burn.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
Now the lightning of battle gleams horridly red,
With a tempest of iron and hail-storm of lead;
And our fire on the foe we so copiously poured,
His mizzen and topmasts soon went by the board.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
So fierce and so bright did our flashes aspire,
They thought that their cannon had set us on fire,
“The Yankee's in flames!”—every British tar hears,
And hails the false omen with three hearty cheers.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
In seventeen minutes they found their mistake,
And were glad to surrender and fall in our wake;
Her decks were with carnage and blood deluged o'er,
Where welt'ring in blood lay an hundred and four.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
But though she was made so completely a wreck,
With blood they had scarcely encrimsoned our deck;
Only five valiant Yankees in the contest were slain,
And our ship in five minutes was fitted again.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
Let Britain no longer lay claim to the seas,
For the trident of Neptune is ours, if we please,
While Hull and Decatur and Jones are our boast,
We dare their whole navy to come on our coast.
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
Rise, tars of Columbia!—and share in the fame,
Which gilds Hull's, Decatur's and Jones's bright name;
Fill a bumper, and drink,“Here's success to the cause,
But Decatur supremely deserves our applause.”
The bold United States ,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Shall ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is“Glory! we conquer or we die.”
'Twas on board the sloop-of-war Wasp boys,
We set sail from Delaware Bay,
To cruise on Columbia's fair coast, sirs,
Our rights to maintain on the sea.
Three days were not passed on our station,
When the Frolic came up to our view;
Says Jones,“Show the flag of our nation”;
Three cheers were then gave by our crew.
We boldly bore up to this Briton,
Whose cannon began for to roar;
The Wasp soon her stings from her side ran,
When we on them a broadside did pour.
Each sailor stood firm at his quarters,
'Twas minutes past forty and three,
When fifty bold Britons were slaughter'd,
Whilst our guns swept their masts in the sea.
Their breasts then with valor still glowing,
Acknowledged the battle we'd won,
On us then bright laurels bestowing,
When to leeward they fired a gun.
On their decks we the twenty guns counted,
With a crew for to answer the same;
Eighteen was the number we mounted,
Being served by the lads of true game.
With the Frolic in tow, we were standing,
All in for Columbia's fair shore;
But fate on our laurels was frowning,
We were taken by a seventy-four.
Britannia's gallant streamers,
Float proudly o'er the tide,
And fairly wave Columbia's stripes,
In battle side by side.
And ne'er did bolder seamen meet,
Where ocean's surges pour;
O'er the tide now they ride,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
When Yankee meets the Briton,
Whose blood congenial flows,
By Heav'n created to be friends,
By fortune rendered foes;
Hard then must be the battle fray,
Ere well the fight is o'er;
Now they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Still, still, for noble England
Bold D’Acres’streamers fly;
And for Columbia, gallant Hull's
As proudly and as high;
Now louder rings the battle din,
And thick the volumes pour;
Still they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Why lulls Britannia's thunder,
That waked the wat'ry war?
Why stays the gallant Guerrière,
Whose streamers waved so fair?
That streamer drinks the ocean wave,
That warrior's fight is o'er!
Still they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Hark! 'tis the Briton's lee gun!
Ne'er bolder warrior kneeled!
And ne'er to gallant mariners
Did braver seamen yield.
Proud be the sires, whose hardy boys
Then fell to fight no more:
With the brave, mid the wave;
When the cannon's thunders roar,
Their spirits then shall trim the blast,
And swell the thunder's roar.
Vain were the cheers of Britons,
Their hearts did vainly swell,
Where virtue, skill, and bravery
With gallant Morris fell.
That heart so well in battle tried,
Along the Moorish shore,
And again o'er the main,
When Columbia's thunders roar,
Shall prove its Yankee spirit true,
When Columbia's thunders roar.
Hence be our floating bulwark
Those oaks our mountains yield;
'Tis mighty Heaven's plain decree—
Then take the wat'ry field!
To ocean's farthest barrier then
Your whit'ning sail shall pour;
Safe they'll ride o'er the tide,
While Columbia's thunders roar,
While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And her Yankee thunders roar.
James Gates Percival is one of the most promising American poets. The frequently anthologised war poem of James Gates Percival is his“Perry's Victory on Lake Erie”, which writes: Throughout the war of 1812 with Great Britain, the navy was more successful than the army. In the battle on Lake Erie, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry captured six British vessels on Sept. 10, 1813.
Bright was the morn,—the waveless bay
Shone like a mirror to the sun;
'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,
The matin birds their lays begun:
While swelling o'er the gloomy wood
Was heard the faintly-echoed roar,—
The dashing of the foaming flood,
That beat on Erie's distant shore.
The tawny wanderer of the wild
Paddled his painted birch canoe,
And, where the wave serenely smiled,
Swift as the darting falcon, flew;
He rowed along that peaceful bay,
And glanced its polished surface o'er,
Listening the billow far away,
That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.
What sounds awake my slumbering ear,
What echoes o'er the waters come?
It is the morning gun I hear,
The rolling of the distant drum.
Far o'er the bright illumined wave
I mark the flash,—I hear the roar,
That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,
To fight on Erie's lonely shore.
See how the starry banner floats,
And sparkles in the morning ray:
While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes
In echoes o'er the gleaming bay:
Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet
Columbia's cannons loudly roar,
And valiant tars the battle greet,
That storms on Erie's echoing shore.
O, who can tell what deeds were done,
When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,
Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,
And met in Erie's flood its grave?
Who tell the triumphs of that day,
When, smiling at the cannon's roar,
Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray,
Conquered on Erie's echoing shore.
Though many a wounded bosom bleeds
For sire, for son, for lover dear,
Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,—
Affliction dries her tender tear;
Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,
With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,
My sire, my son, my lover died,
Conquering on Erie's bloody shore.
Long shall my country bless that day,
When soared our Eagle to the skies;
Long, long in triumph's bright array,
That victory shall proudly rise:
And when our country's lights are gone,
And all its proudest days are o'er,
How will her fading courage dawn,
To think on Erie's bloody shore!
Francis Scott Key is a lawyer who witnessed the daylong assault of Fort McHenry by British troops during the War of 1812. He saw the fort held during the attack in September 1814 when the British had burned the city of Washington and was inspired to write“The Star-Spangled Banner”(1814) with the original title“Defence of Fort McHenry”, which was officially adopted as the national anthem by an act of Congress in 1931.
O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there—
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream—
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havock of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul foot-steps' pollution,
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation,
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto—“In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
Thomas Dunn English is an American writer and poet, and a politician of Irish Quaker heritage. He worked as a doctor, a lawyer, and a long-time politician, but it was literature that English primarily distinguished himself. One episode says that in 1843 the New York Mirror published what would become his most memorable poem or song,“Ben Bolt.”It immediately became the most popular of popular songs in the country. The New York Times reported that,during English's 1890 bid for a seat in the House of Representatives, the song“was sung nightly by all the singers the Democrats could muster, and the author was literally sung into Congress.”
During his remaining years, he balanced well between literature and politics. As a writer or poet, English has attracted little attention from critics, having been neglected as a writer worthy of individual study. However, as scholars continue to recover literature with important cultural associations, English may invite study as a representative of nineteenth-century magazinists and popular poets. The following two excerpts of his poetic production may serve as a good appreciation.
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 dropp'd 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 bulldogs 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 roll'd
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 cannons
Leap'd 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 travell'd
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 stirr'd,
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 mark'd 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 reform'd 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 peal'd;
And by his quick, sharp movement,
We felt his heart was stirr'd,
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 staunchless courage
That mark'd 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 Baritarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down through the marshall'd 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 shatter'd force to rally,
A final effort made.
He led it up our ramparts,
Small glory did he gain—
Our captives some, while others fled,
And he himself was slain.
The stormers had retreated,
The bloody work was o'er;
The feet of the invaders
Were seen to leave our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talk'd 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 lasting,
And hours of sleepless care,
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth in glory there.
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars.
With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,
On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,
As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat head.
There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,
And under the press of her pond'ring jib the boom bent like a hoop,
And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main tack.
But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at a white and silvery track.
The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore;
And that sterling light on Tusker rock, where the old bell tolls the hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower.
The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set,
The spanker and her standing jib, the spanker being fast.
“Now, lay aloft, my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!”
And royals and topgallant sails were quickly on each mast.
What looms upon the starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
'T is time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees;
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four
We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.
Up spoke our noble captain then, as a shot ahead of us passed,
“Haul snug your flowing courses, lay your topsail to the mast!”
The Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,
And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.
“Out, booms! Out, booms!”our skipper cried,“Out, booms, and give her sheet!”
And the swiftest keel that ever was launched shot ahead of the British fleet.
And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stunsails hoisting away,
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day.
[1] After the British had burned the Capitol at Washington, in August, 1813, they retired to their ships, and on September 12 th and 13 th , they made an attack on Baltimore. This poem was written on the morning after the bombardment of Fort McHenry, while the author was a prisoner on the British fleet.