The Battle of New Orleans

Eyes right, my jolly field boys,
Who British bayonets bear,
To teach your foes to yield boys,
When British steel they dare!
Now fill the glass, for the toast of toasts
Shall be drunk with the cheer of cheers,
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
For the British bayoneteers.

The British Bayoneteers-Traditional

The British generals, lieutenants and enlisted men,
came down to the Plains of Chalmette
in January of 1815
with fighting men, 7000 strong.
Through a morning fog they faced
America's finest, crouched behind earthen ramparts.

Rockets burst through thick bayou haze,
hissing and sizzling among Andrew Jackson's ranks.
"They're only rockets!" Ole Hickory
called out to his men waiting there.
"Keep your heads low and they won't knock off your hats."
America's finest, protecting their hide and hair.

While his fighters peered in fear through the gloom,
sure they were about to meet their doom,
there stood a band of Cajuns you may know,
Pierre Lafitte, Dominique Youx, and their men,
brewing coffee by a roaring blaze.
America's finest, resting before a battle.

Old Andy Jackson approached them,
calling for a taste of the dark brew.
Dominique handed him a tin cup.
"Mon generale, it's hickory flavored,"
he exclaimed with a salute before he poured.
America's finest, sharing their bounty.

Hickory's men heard rifles firing and popping
from the woods on the other side of the Mighty Mississip'.
Jean Lafitte was leading marksmen in a target shoot.
A regiment of Redcoats were slowly falling back,
unable to cross the river to join the main attack.
America's finest, greeting the day.

A screaming cry pierced the mists over Chalmette;
the shrill of regimental bagpipes tuning up.
General Jackson leaped on the ramparts,
Trusty saber in hand,
ready to give the command.
America's finest, standing strong against the foe.

A freshet of breeze parted the foggy curtain,
showed red-coated British infantry,
white cross belts and glittering bayonets,
agleam in the gloom,
alongside Scottish regiment with tartan kilts on.
They looked sorely out of place just then,
facing swamp dwellers, privateers and woodsmen,
America's finest, from across the land.

The British advanced with bagpipes screaming,
and regimental banner streaming.
The Americans stood ready to fight.
150 yards came the cry, "Make ready muskets!"
One-hundred yards...
America's finest aimed into the fog.

Fifty yards. "Fire!" The command rang.
Three-thousand squirrel guns and long rifles exploded.
The first line of British marchers fell,
bright red blood on bright red uniforms.
America's finest made the Red Coats pay.

Tripping over fallen comrades in the fog
of noise, blood, flying dirt and a swarm of bullets,
6000 gallant British fled before contemptible rabble.
America's finest, claimed the day!

Brave sons of the West, the blood in your veins
At danger's approach waited not for persuaders;
You rushed from your mountains, your hills, and your plains,
And followed your streams to repel the invaders.

American Recruiting Song of the War of 1812