How Old Brown Took Harper’s Ferry
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
Stedman tells the story of John Brown (1800–1859), the militant abolitionist whose guerilla-band captured the arsenal at Harper’s Ferry in Virginia on October 16, 1859. This act put the issue of slavery at the forefront of the national consciousness, as he intended. He and his men were all killed or taken prisoner. He was put on trial for murder and treason. Stedman ends the ballad, which he completed in November 1859, with a prophecy of the coming war. On December 2, Brown was hanged.
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;
Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;
And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed ’em!—
They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Said, “Boys, the Lord will aid us!” and he shoved his ramrod down.
And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even,
Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,
Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!
Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,
But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,
And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven’s vengeance down.
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,
He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;
He would seize it by the vitals;
he would crush it day and night; he
Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow.
That Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,
And more sharply curved his hawk’s-nose, snuffing battle from afar;
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,
Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,
Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,
Hired a farm by Harper’s Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,
Or whether he’d turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;
For Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson’s gown.
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;
But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp’s rifles;
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
“Boys, we’ve got an army large enough to march and take the town!
“Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;
Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—
These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth.”
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
“The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown.”
’Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:
“This good work,” declared the captain, “shall be on a holy night!”
It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates —black and white,
Captain Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;
Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;
Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.
Mad Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;
It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor’s coup d’etat.
“Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!” said he.
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—
This Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown;
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whither
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.
General Brown,
Osawatomie Brown!
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.
But at last, ’tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown’s durance,
And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out.
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—
Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.
But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,
Till they battered down Brown’s castle with their ladders and machines;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!
In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;
And whene’er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,
Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.
How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;
What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o’er.
“Hang Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,”
Said the judge, “and all such rebels!” with his most judicial frown.
But, Virginians, don’t do it! for I tell you that the flagon,
Filled with blood of Old Brown’s offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;
And each drop from Old Brown’s life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
May trouble you more than ever, when you’ve nailed his coffin down!
Glory Hallelujah! or John Brown’s Body
ANONYMOUS
“John Brown’s Body” in its various versions, including Southern parodies, was the most popular marching song in the war. The author of this version is said to be Charles Sprague Hall.
John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies a-mould’ring in the grave.
His soul is marching on!
Chorus—Glory! Glory Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory Hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
He’s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!
His soul is marching on.
John Brown’s knapsack is strapped upon his back.
His soul is marching on.
His pet lambs will meet him on the way.
And they’ll go marching on.
They’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,
As they go marching on.
Now for the Union let’s give three rousing cheers.
As we go marching on.
Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!
JOHN D. PHELAN
The author, seized by a Herculean image, was from Montgomery, the first capital of the Confederacy, where this poem was published in October 1860 in the Montgomery Advertiser.
Ye men of Alabama,
Awake, arise, awake!
And rend the coils asunder
Of this Abolition snake.
If another fold he fastens
If this final coil he plies
In the cold clasp of hate and power
Fair Alabama dies.
Though round your lower limbs and waist
His deadly coils I see,
Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms
And good right hand, are free;
And in that hand there glistens—
O God! what joy to feel!—
A polished blade, full sharp and keen,
Of tempered State Rights steel.
Now, by the free-born sires
From whose brave loins ye sprung!
And by the noble mothers
At whose fond breasts ye hung!
And by your wives and daughters,
And by the fills they dread,
Drive deep that good Secession steel
Right through the Monster’s head.
This serpent Abolition
Has been coiling on for years;
We have reasoned, we have threatened,
We have begged almost with tears:
Now, away, away with Union,
Since on our Southern soil
The only union left us
Is an anaconda’s coil.
Brave, little South Carolina
Will strike the self-same blow,
And Florida, and Georgia,
And Mississippi, too;
And Arkansas and Texas;
And at her death, I ween,
The head will fall beneath the blows
Of all the brave Fifteen.
In this our day of trial,
Let feuds and factions cease,
Until above this howling storm
We see the sign of Peace.
Let Southern men, like brothers,
In solid phalanx stand,
And poise their spears and lock their shields
To guard their native land.
The love that for the Union
Once in our bosoms beat,
From insult and from injury
Has turned to scorn and hate;
And the banner of Secession
Today we lift on high,
Resolved, beneath that sacred flag,
To conquer or TO DIE!
C. G. POYNAS
This blustering war-call was published in the Charleston Mercury.
This call for
Carolinians! who inherit
Blood which flowed in patriot veins!
Rouse ye from lethargic slumber,
Rouse and fling away your chains!
From the mountain to the seaboard,
Let the cry be—Up! Arise!
Throw our pure Palmetto banner
Proudly upward to the skies.
Fling it out! its lone star beaming
Brightly to the nation’s gaze;
Lo! another star arises!
Quickly, proudly it emblaze!
Yet another! Bid it welcome
With a hearty “three times three”;
Send it forth, on boom of cannon,
Southern men will dare be free.
Faster than the cross of battle
Summoned rude Clan Alpine’s host,
Flash the news from sea to mountain—
Back from mountain to the coast!
On the lightning’s wing it fleeth,
Scares the eagle in his flight,
As his keen eye sees arising
Glory, yet shall daze his sight!
Cease the triumph—days of darkness
Loom upon us from afar:
Can a woman’s voice for battle
Ring the fatal note of war?
Yes—when we have borne aggression
Till submission is disgrace—
Southern women call for action;
Ready would the danger face!
Yes, in many a matron’s bosom
Burns the Spartan spirit now;
From the maiden’s eye it flashes,
Glows upon her snowy brow;
E’en our infants in their prattle
Urge us on to risk our all—
“Would we leave them, as a blessing.
The oppressor’s hateful thrall?”
No!—then up, true-hearted Southrons,
Like bold “giants nerved by wine”;
Never fear! The cause is holy—
It is sacred—yea, divine!
For the Lord of Hosts is with us,
It is He has cast our lot;
Blest our homes—from lordly mansion
To the humblest negro cot.
God of battles! hear our cry—
Give us nerve to do or die!