Going-to-the-stars :: :: University of Virginia Library

I will speak of your deeds,
Andrew Jackson,
When I take the free road again,
Oh, the long, dusty highway,
Oh, the rain,
Oh, the sunburnt men!
I will watch all your storm clouds,
On the wing,
I will hear your red robin sing.
Only the rich want your name to grow dim,
But the robin will sing again your wild hymn.

The neat little town
Has no peace,
No rest,
Backwoodsmen have poured in from the whole West!
Oh, the hard cider crowd drinks him down by the gallon!
His long hands are talons!
His face is a talon!
Oh, this is the secret that shakes him forever:—
The Star-Spangled Banner that stands near his side

Is his furious heart's immaculate bride,
That flag is Rachel Jackson to him,
And the light of that lady will never grow dim.

Strange indeed are the ways of the Giver,
Pouring out the people forever.
From forest and field,
They will ever renew,
But the Jacksons are few.

When I take the free road again,
I will hide from the rich forever,
Like an under-the-desert river,
The better to learn the ways of the Giver.

Let us think of Democracy's proudest son,
The wilderness, brought to Washington,
The frontier, brought to its place of power,
To its proudest hour!—
Bull-buffalo, tramping again the weeds!
Victory
There in his eye,
He thinks of his speech
On last Fourth of July,
And many a farther off Fourth of July.

He hears a far Yankee Doodle tune,
He thinks he will soon be hanging Calhoun:—

That new-made aristocrat John C. Calhoun—
The green logs hissing
A sinister tune,
While he thinks of Calhoun.

Long he leans there,
Over George Washington's chair,
And he visions his Rachel throned dimly there,
Till his eyes have a curious,
Furious glare.

More and more mysterious grows
The dawn till he calls to his Rachel the rose;
Again, and again, and again, till the day,
He opens his shirt,
He beats his breast,
He takes out the picture of Rachel his pride,
Of old Rachel Jackson,
Our flag in her hands,
His furious heart's immaculate bride!
Oh, miniature carried against his lean side,
Hung round his neck by a great black cord,
Carried in battle, and duel, and storm,
Always kept by his battle wounds warm.
Oh, the light of the lady will never grow dim!
She was always the Star-Spangled Banner to him!
The binding touch of that great black cord

Filled his heart with the love of the Lord,
And the wrath of the Lord.

“The kings and the commons against the world—”
Where have we heard that story before?
How soon will we hear it one time more?
In the name of that cause I will knock at your door—
Of that natural king
Soon come begging again,
Oh, free American women and men.

I see Andrew Jackson kneel by the fire,—
Then—
He heaps hissing logs till the fullness of day,
With that terrible fixedness in his look,
He kisses the picture of Rachel again,
He reads again from that tattered book.
Full day has come,
The bridegroom is young,
He strides about! And he strides about!
And he rattles around with his spurs and his sword,
And he tramples down every slanderous tongue,
Democracy's old, old heart has grown young.

The green logs give forth more mysterious fires,
The hickory logs hum a more sinister tune,

While he thinks of Secessionist
JOHN C. CALHOUN;
And he thinks he will soon
Be hanging Calhoun—
The new-made aristocrat, John C. Calhoun,
Who would wreck the Union—
John C. Calhoun.