My first grows by the riverside

My first grows by the riverside, And in the fields it has been seen; ’T is raised on poles, the country’s pride, Dear to the peasant and the queen.

The men had many battles braved, And on my last I saw them sit, Beside the General, who waved My last, and read aloud a writ.

Beside a river flowing free, The spot marked by a grassy mound, My whole, nicknamed “Old Hickory,” Was long ago put in the ground.