Classic Poem

He was a man as hot as whiskey.
He was a man whose word was good.
He was a man whose hate was risky —
Andrew Jackson — hickory wood!

He was in love with love and glory;
His hopes were prospered, but at a price:
The bandying of the ugly story
He'd had to marry his Rachel twice.

Hot he was and a hasty suitor,
But if he sinned he was poor at sin.
She was plain as a spoon of pewter,
Plain and good as a safety pin.

Andrew Jackson, man of honor,
Held her name like he held his head.
He stopped a bullet for slurs upon her.
All his life he carried lead.

All his life wherever he went he
Wore the scar of a pistol shot —
Along with others he had in plenty.
Hickory wood is hard to rot.

Hard to rot and a fiery fuel —
When faith and freedom both burned dim,
He stood his guns as he fought a duel,
And heartened others to stand with him.

With any man who was good at sighting,
No ally but the thief Lafitte,
And no campaigns but Indian fighting —
He brought the British to black defeat.

The odds against him were more than double.
His gunmounts sank like a heart that fails,
Sank in mud and the frosty stubble —
So he set his cannon on cotton bales.

And over the cane and the silver sedges —
The redcoats' coats were as red as flame —
In a hundred rows like a hundred hedges,
The bayonets of the British came.

The smoke of his cannon rolled and scattered
Like bursting flowers, like cotton blooms.
Like teeth from a comb the red ranks shattered,
While water lifted in yellow plumes.

White and red on the silver carpet,
Scarlet tunics by crossbelts crossed,
They fell and died — and a flood of scarlet
Covered over the field of frost.

He was a man whose hand was steady.
He was a man whose aim was good.
He was a man whose guns were ready —
Andrew Jackson — hickory wood!