With crazy pikes and a fantastic mind. Call up the American names, Kagi, the self-taught scholar, quiet and cool, Stevens, the cashiered soldier, bawling his song, Dangerfield Newby, the freed Scotch-mulatto, Watson and Oliver Brown and all the hard-dying. Call up the slug-riddled dead of Harper’s Ferry And cast them down the wind on a raid again. This is the dark hour, This is the ebb-tide, This is the sunset, this is the defeat. The cotton-blossoms are growing up to the sky, The great stone gate of the Union sinks beneath them, And under the giant blossoms lies Egypt’s land, The dark river, The ground of bondage, The chained men. If the great gate falls, the cotton grows over your dream. Find your heart, John Brown, (A-mouldering in the grave.) Call your sons and get your pikes, (A-mouldering in the grave.) Your song goes on, but the slave is still a slave,