We turned and saw our chieftain,
And then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the cheers
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 ENGLISII.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.

PART I.

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,

'Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors,
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco

With a drink that is named after Mars.

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, And as long as his tap never fails,

Thus over his favorite liquor

Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, "In my life's ninety summers Strange changes and chances I've seenSo here's to all gentlemen drummers That ever have thumped on a skin.

"Brought up in the art military
For four generations we are;

My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre;
And as each man in life has his station,
According as fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the bâton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.

"Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots and lackeys and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!

In Germany, Flanders, and Holland-
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,
My graudsire and Monsieur Turenne.

"He died, and our noble battalions
The jade fickle Fortune forsook; -
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,
The victory lay with Malbrook.

The news it was brought to King Louis;
Corbleu how his Majesty swore
When he heard they had taken my grandsire
And twelve thousand gentlemen more!

"At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet
Were we posted, on plain or in trench;
Malbrook only need to attack it,

And away from him scampered we French. Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys"Tis written, since fighting begun,

That sometimes we fight and we conquer,
And sometimes we fight and we run.

"To fight and to run was our fate;
Our fortune and fame had departed;
And so perished Louis the Great-

Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud,

His body they tried to lay hands on; And so having buried King Louis,

They loyally served his great-grandson.

"God save the beloved King Louis!
(For so he was nicknamed by some),
And now came my father to do his

King's orders and beat on the drum.

My grandsire was dead, but his bones
Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy,
To hear daddy drumming the English
From the meadows of famed Fontenoy.

"So well did he drum in that battle

That the enemy showed us their backs; Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattle

The sticks, and to follow old Saxe! We next had Soubise as a leader,

And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz.

"And now daddy crossed the Atlantic,
To drum for Montcalm and his men ;
Morbleu! but it makes a man frantic,
To think we were beaten again!
My daddy he crossed the wide ocean,
My mother brought me on her neck,
And we came in the year fifty-seven

To guard the good town of Quebec.

"In the year fifty-nine came the Britons-
Full well I remember the day;

They knocked at our gates for admittance,
Their vessels were moored in our bay.
Says our general, 'Drive me yon red-coats
Away to the sea, whence they come !'

So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs,
We marched at the sound of the drum.

"I think I can see my poor mammy
With me in her hand as she waits,
And our regiment, slowly retreating,
Pours back through the citadel-gates.

Dear mammy, she looks in their faces,
And asks if her husband is come--

He is lying all cold on the glacis,

And will never more beat on the drum.

"Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys; He died like a soldier-in glory;

Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys,
And now I'll commence my own story.
Once more did we cross the salt ocean;
We came in the year eighty-one;

And the wrongs of my father the drummer
Were avenged by the drummer his son.

"In Chesapeake Bay we were landed; In vain strove the British to pass; Rochambeau our armies commanded,

Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu! how I rattled the drumsticks, The day we marched into Yorktown! Ten thousand of beef-eating British

Their weapons we caused to lay down. "Then homeward returning victorious, In peace to our country we came, And were thanked for our glorious actions By Louis Sixteenth of the name. What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drummed at Versailles To the lovely court-ladies in powder, And lappets, and long satin tails?

"The Princes that day passed before us, Our countrymen's glory and hope; Monsieur, who was learned in Horace,

D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope.