 | Going-to-the-stars |  |
16
An Oration, Entitled
“OLD, OLD, OLD, OLD ANDREW JACKSON”
“Our Federal Union, it must be preserved!”
Jackson's famous toast.
I
The Coming of Hope in the Heart of Old President Jackson
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!
Andrew Jackson,
When I take the free road again.
Oh, the long, dusty highway!
Oh, the rain,
Oh, the sunburnt men!
I will think of you,
Strong old Indian god,
Old turkey cock,
On a forest rock,
Old buffalo, knee-deep in the weeds,
Old faithful heart who could boast and strut;
I will think of you when I harvest again,
I will think of you in the forest again,
I will think of you when the woods are cut—
Old, old Andrew Jackson.
Strong old Indian god,
Old turkey cock,
On a forest rock,
Old buffalo, knee-deep in the weeds,
Old faithful heart who could boast and strut;
I will think of you when I harvest again,
I will think of you in the forest again,
I will think of you when the woods are cut—
Old, old Andrew Jackson.
I think of you, Andrew Jackson,
Two o'clock in the morning,
In the White House, alone,
You stand there, Old Hickory,
Lean as a bone.
It is now
The fifth of March,
1833,
And you wonder
With an aching heart,
Have you set your people free?
You see the frontier skirmish-line
Of the western cabins, built
For man's escape
From Babylon,
From Europe's gold and gilt;
And yet you know this Washington
Is too fine
Too superfine,
Is full of sugar,
Cake and wine.
Two o'clock in the morning,
17
You stand there, Old Hickory,
Lean as a bone.
It is now
The fifth of March,
1833,
And you wonder
With an aching heart,
Have you set your people free?
You see the frontier skirmish-line
Of the western cabins, built
For man's escape
From Babylon,
From Europe's gold and gilt;
And yet you know this Washington
Is too fine
Too superfine,
Is full of sugar,
Cake and wine.
I dreamed when I was only a boy
Of this second inaugural night,
When you, a second time,
Had your way;
And your banners burned bright!
I saw you marching around your fire,
Tired, restless, fuming, dreaming,
Booted and spurred,
Till day.
Of this second inaugural night,
When you, a second time,
Had your way;
And your banners burned bright!
I saw you marching around your fire,
Tired, restless, fuming, dreaming,
18
Till day.
Some are born to be bullied and chidden,
To be bridled
And ridden,
Born to be harried or whipped or hidden;
Others
Born
Booted and spurred to ride,
To make the aristocrats stand aside.
I dreamed, as a boy, of Andrew Jackson,
Relentless, furious, high in his pride,
Democracy irresistible,
Booted and spurred
To ride.
To be bridled
And ridden,
Born to be harried or whipped or hidden;
Others
Born
Booted and spurred to ride,
To make the aristocrats stand aside.
I dreamed, as a boy, of Andrew Jackson,
Relentless, furious, high in his pride,
Democracy irresistible,
Booted and spurred
To ride.
He broke the horns
Of all cattle who horned him,
He broke the bones
Of all who scorned him;—
Biddle or Webster or Clay or Calhoun.
The finest hope from the Cave of Adullam,
Since David ascended the throne;—
Old Andrew Jackson,
The old, old raven,
Lean as a bone!
Now his smart lackey, the wizard Van Buren is gone.
Van Buren's crawlers, bootlickers and toadies have gone,
But the best and the worst of “The People” stay on.
Young frontiersmen drink around Jackson,
Yet he sits alone,
Like a stone.
Of all cattle who horned him,
He broke the bones
Of all who scorned him;—
Biddle or Webster or Clay or Calhoun.
The finest hope from the Cave of Adullam,
Since David ascended the throne;—
Old Andrew Jackson,
The old, old raven,
Lean as a bone!
19
Van Buren's crawlers, bootlickers and toadies have gone,
But the best and the worst of “The People” stay on.
Young frontiersmen drink around Jackson,
Yet he sits alone,
Like a stone.
He is so cold,
He is so old.
The night is so empty, so weary, so dreary,
He is short of breath, he breathes hardly at all,
He wishes for death and the end of it all—
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew
Jackson.
Why should he not be unsteady?
He is a legend, already.
He is so old.
The night is so empty, so weary, so dreary,
He is short of breath, he breathes hardly at all,
He wishes for death and the end of it all—
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew
Jackson.
Why should he not be unsteady?
He is a legend, already.
Though he leans here, the conqueror of the proud,
Harvesting here without fear,
He sighs for his coffin, his pall and shroud,
And calls for his Rachel aloud.
Harvesting here without fear,
He sighs for his coffin, his pall and shroud,
And calls for his Rachel aloud.
And he thinks of Van Buren and all such men,
Then stands up and laughs,
And laughs again.
For he thinks what all lions think of all jackals;
Then he thinks of the time when the world was young
And Rachel was young,
When he threaded black woods without guard, without guide,
And shot without trial all who slandered and lied;
He thinks of gigantic scoundrels he hung
In West Tennessee, when the Nation was young,
In Florida, when the Nation was young.
Then he thinks he will soon
Hang those
Nullifiers,
And make them a “terror to traitors”—
And especially . . .
John C. Calhoun!
Then, he thinks on,
To Heaven,
Where heavenly Rachel is gone.
And the boy frontiersmen sense the mystery
Of the far-off eyes and the destiny
Of this man who could never change his mind,
Who put strange fight into humankind.
Still cold as a stone,
Abrupt, alone,
Old, old,
Old, old,
Andrew
Jackson.
Then stands up and laughs,
20
For he thinks what all lions think of all jackals;
Then he thinks of the time when the world was young
And Rachel was young,
When he threaded black woods without guard, without guide,
And shot without trial all who slandered and lied;
He thinks of gigantic scoundrels he hung
In West Tennessee, when the Nation was young,
In Florida, when the Nation was young.
Then he thinks he will soon
Hang those
Nullifiers,
And make them a “terror to traitors”—
And especially . . .
John C. Calhoun!
Then, he thinks on,
To Heaven,
Where heavenly Rachel is gone.
And the boy frontiersmen sense the mystery
Of the far-off eyes and the destiny
Of this man who could never change his mind,
Who put strange fight into humankind.
Still cold as a stone,
Abrupt, alone,
Old, old,
21
Andrew
Jackson.
He climbs to the roof.
He looks at the stars aglow,
One constellation
Seems like a buffalo.
He says: “The world is so queer and so wide!”
He wonders if that new notion is sound—
These rascals say that the world is round.
And he watches the fires on the edge of the sky,
Far-off delirious dancers go by;—
Democracy prancing on far-off hills,
Where the hard cider pours down
In rivers and rills.
He looks at the stars aglow,
One constellation
Seems like a buffalo.
He says: “The world is so queer and so wide!”
He wonders if that new notion is sound—
These rascals say that the world is round.
And he watches the fires on the edge of the sky,
Far-off delirious dancers go by;—
Democracy prancing on far-off hills,
Where the hard cider pours down
In rivers and rills.
Soon his back grows straight,
His manner more stern,
His breath turns fire,
His iron eyes burn,
More and more mysterious grows
The dawn,
Till he calls to his Rachel the rose.
He dreams,
As he walks,
Of the bride
Of his youth—
Her immaculate beauty,
Immaculate truth.
His manner more stern,
His breath turns fire,
His iron eyes burn,
More and more mysterious grows
The dawn,
Till he calls to his Rachel the rose.
He dreams,
As he walks,
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Of his youth—
Her immaculate beauty,
Immaculate truth.
That game-cock look all over him now,
Don Quixote now, with a dangerous eye,
He inflexibly stands
With a Bible and picture there in his hands;
(And only in these will his heart confide!)
His wife's tattered Bible tight in his hands,
And her miniature there in his lonely hands:—
Old Rachel Jackson,
Our flag, our flag, in her capable hands,
Her faithful and deathless hands!
Don Quixote now, with a dangerous eye,
He inflexibly stands
With a Bible and picture there in his hands;
(And only in these will his heart confide!)
His wife's tattered Bible tight in his hands,
And her miniature there in his lonely hands:—
Old Rachel Jackson,
Our flag, our flag, in her capable hands,
Her faithful and deathless hands!
He tramp-tramp-tramps down the creaky stair,
With a rattle of spurs,
A rattle of spurs,
Jingling out
The old, old story,
Democracy's shame
And Democracy's glory,
A natural king
With a raven wing;
Cold no more, weary no more—
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew Jackson!
With a rattle of spurs,
A rattle of spurs,
Jingling out
The old, old story,
Democracy's shame
And Democracy's glory,
A natural king
With a raven wing;
Cold no more, weary no more—
Old old,
23
Andrew Jackson!
Now the strong west wind with a loud song is singing,
Down the White House chimney the wild song is winging:—
“West Tennessee brought white horses for him,
Strong colts in relays, white horses in line,
Each steed had more splendour, fury more fine,
War horses, king horses, stallions divine.
Then the whole Nation brought white horses for him.”
Down the White House chimney the wild song is winging:—
“West Tennessee brought white horses for him,
Strong colts in relays, white horses in line,
Each steed had more splendour, fury more fine,
War horses, king horses, stallions divine.
Then the whole Nation brought white horses for him.”
Only the rich want his name to grow dim,
To have the American people forget
How they brought great white horses for him.
Do you think that I want some fool,
Statistical,
To picture that second inaugural
Who has read all the diaries of that day
And all that the Adamses have to say?
And the speeches of Calhoun, of Webster and Clay?
I must ask a boy who has faded away.
I must ask my own heart when it was so young
To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue,
As my father and my grandfathers taught me
To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue.
When I take the road and beg again,
In the first log cabin I will talk of Jackson.
There, the second inaugural night,
With a cane he drove the last revelers out,
For there were swine in the glamour and rout.
There were gourds on the floor,
Empty hard cider kegs,
Broken-up tables,
And broken chair legs.
But, far on the edge of the Maryland hills,
Bonfires burned high, the revelers danced,
Steeds and riders snorted and pranced;
Thebes had gone down,
Sparta gone down,
Babylon fallen,
Rome fallen,
London Tower fallen,
The Bastile fallen!
Gone were the blasphemous breeds—
Mankind was made new.
The only crown was Democracy's crown,
The only town left was Democracy's town,
And Jackson was king of it, too.
And the hard cider poured down the hills and the trails,
And men drank up glory from gourds and from pails.
To have the American people forget
How they brought great white horses for him.
Do you think that I want some fool,
Statistical,
To picture that second inaugural
Who has read all the diaries of that day
And all that the Adamses have to say?
And the speeches of Calhoun, of Webster and Clay?
I must ask a boy who has faded away.
I must ask my own heart when it was so young
To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue,
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To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue.
When I take the road and beg again,
In the first log cabin I will talk of Jackson.
There, the second inaugural night,
With a cane he drove the last revelers out,
For there were swine in the glamour and rout.
There were gourds on the floor,
Empty hard cider kegs,
Broken-up tables,
And broken chair legs.
But, far on the edge of the Maryland hills,
Bonfires burned high, the revelers danced,
Steeds and riders snorted and pranced;
Thebes had gone down,
Sparta gone down,
Babylon fallen,
Rome fallen,
London Tower fallen,
The Bastile fallen!
Gone were the blasphemous breeds—
Mankind was made new.
The only crown was Democracy's crown,
The only town left was Democracy's town,
And Jackson was king of it, too.
And the hard cider poured down the hills and the trails,
25
In the empty White House the chieftain was still.
His face was a talon,
His hands were talons,
George Washington's old armchair was a throne,
The high-heeled women were weeping alone.
Rachel Jackson's old ghost
Was queen on the throne.
He thinks of New Orleans,
Then of the day
He sent Calhoun's messengers furious away,—
The green logs hissing a sinister tune
While he thinks
Of Calhoun.
His face was a talon,
His hands were talons,
George Washington's old armchair was a throne,
The high-heeled women were weeping alone.
Rachel Jackson's old ghost
Was queen on the throne.
He thinks of New Orleans,
Then of the day
He sent Calhoun's messengers furious away,—
The green logs hissing a sinister tune
While he thinks
Of Calhoun.
He hears louder shouting,
The bonfires afar
Shine on the hills like his mighty north star;
He hears his followers boasting, bantering,
With the end of his sword he stirs up the embers,
And he thinks of secessionists,
Counts all their numbers,
But he looks in the embers and sees his white horses,
Cantering, cantering, cantering, cantering.
The bonfires afar
Shine on the hills like his mighty north star;
He hears his followers boasting, bantering,
With the end of his sword he stirs up the embers,
And he thinks of secessionists,
Counts all their numbers,
But he looks in the embers and sees his white horses,
Cantering, cantering, cantering, cantering.
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II
The Coming of Day in the City of Washington, March 5, 1833
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.
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.
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
27
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.
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.
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.
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.
He thinks he will soon be hanging Calhoun:—
28
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.
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 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
29
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.
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.
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.
The hickory logs hum a more sinister tune,
30
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.
III
The Coming of To-morrow to the American Democracy
And to-day,
My darlings,
Victory
Burns in his eye,
Our Democracy's dreams ride westward with him,
Around the bright world, in valor and pride,
For he has learned that the world is round,
And the cries for his reign in all nations abound.
My darlings,
Victory
Burns in his eye,
Our Democracy's dreams ride westward with him,
Around the bright world, in valor and pride,
For he has learned that the world is round,
And the cries for his reign in all nations abound.
So from Sun Mountain,
When cliff shadows deepen,
I look to the west
At sunset, at moonrise,
Beyond where the sun
Has ended its journey, and stars have begun,
And I sing my song in valor and pride,
How Jackson still on white horses will ride.
Looking into my campfire,
There on Sun Mountain,
A fiery fountain—
A hissing,
A showering,
A more and more unaccountable flowering!
I watch there all night
Till the last logs burn down,
And I see in the bright
Immaculate coals the Pacific foam;
I see in the bright
Immaculate coals Jackson's horses of white!
When cliff shadows deepen,
I look to the west
At sunset, at moonrise,
31
Has ended its journey, and stars have begun,
And I sing my song in valor and pride,
How Jackson still on white horses will ride.
Looking into my campfire,
There on Sun Mountain,
A fiery fountain—
A hissing,
A showering,
A more and more unaccountable flowering!
I watch there all night
Till the last logs burn down,
And I see in the bright
Immaculate coals the Pacific foam;
I see in the bright
Immaculate coals Jackson's horses of white!
Oh, horses in relays, horses in line,
Each steed has more splendor, fury more fine,
War horses, king horses, stallions divine!
He rides the Pacific on clouds red and white,
Our Democracy's children ride westward with him.
Each steed has more splendor, fury more fine,
War horses, king horses, stallions divine!
He rides the Pacific on clouds red and white,
Our Democracy's children ride westward with him.
Now the new west wind a loud song is singing
Again and again and again till the day:
“Some men are born saddled and bridled to be ridden,
Others born booted and spurred to ride.
I sing the song
Of Andrew Jackson,
Born
Booted and spurred to ride!
West Tennessee brought white horses for him,
Strong colts in relays,
White horses in line;
Each steed grew in splendor, with fury more fine—
War horses, king horses,
Stallions divine!
Then the Nation
Brought white horses for him
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew
Jackson!
Then Death brought white horses for him.”
Again and again and again till the day:
“Some men are born saddled and bridled to be ridden,
32
I sing the song
Of Andrew Jackson,
Born
Booted and spurred to ride!
West Tennessee brought white horses for him,
Strong colts in relays,
White horses in line;
Each steed grew in splendor, with fury more fine—
War horses, king horses,
Stallions divine!
Then the Nation
Brought white horses for him
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew
Jackson!
Then Death brought white horses for him.”
And I lift my eyes from my all-night camp fire,
And I see him ride the high clouds of desire,
For he was born booted and spurred to ride—
Booted and spurred to ride!
My darlings,
Born
Booted and spurred
To ride!
And I see him ride the high clouds of desire,
For he was born booted and spurred to ride—
Booted and spurred to ride!
My darlings,
Born
33
To ride!
This oration was given for the Jefferson's Birthday Dinner, April 15, 1925, at Spokane, Washington, for the local organization of the Democratic party. It was a source of satisfaction to me to have it accepted definitely as a political oration for a definite party, and not as a parlor poem. It is to be read aloud, in the way one would read a political speech from the newspaper at election time, when such issues are really before the people.
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