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Updated: May 28, 2025
The huge murmur of the chorus expanded, and gathered in rhythmic strength, and swelled to power, and rolled and thundered across the plain. "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, His soul goes marching on! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Old John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, While the bondmen all are weeping whom he ventured for to save; But though he lost his life a-fighting for the slave, His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! His soul is marching on.
Still the fierce flame raged, and from the column which had gone into the forest beyond came back the solemn chant, which sounded at that moment like the fateful voice of an avenging angel; "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; His soul is marching on!"
It was simply the development of an agitation that had begun on other lines. But there were martyrs to the cause of freedom before the war. Everybody knows more or less of the story of John Brown, of Ossawatomie, whose soul kept "marching on," although his body was "a-mouldering in the grave."
"There is something else I must show you while we are in the neighborhood," said Mrs. Evans, as they passed through Akron. "Does anybody know what two historical things are near here?" Nobody knew. Mrs. Evans began humming, "John Brown's Body Lies A-mouldering in the Grave." "What has that to do with it?" asked Gladys. "Everything, with one of them," said Mrs. Evans.
It was only when he had closed the door that he remembered that he had put down for a passport number his army number. "And why did I write John Brown as a name?" he asked himself. "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, But his soul goes marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah! But his soul goes marching on."
They peered with stupified eyes through the smoky twilight. From afar, faintly through the gloaming, came mournfully to their ears the many-voiced refrain fainter, fainter: "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground. John Brown's body lies mould ..... we go march.... on."
A slightly cracked voice, yet a huskily tuneful one, was lifted quaveringly on the air from the roadside, where an old man and a yellow dog sat in the dust together, the latter reprieved at the last moment, his surprised head rakishly garnished with a hasty wreath of dog-fennel daisies. "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, While we go marching on!"
When called to account for his conduct, "Really, sir," he said, "er-er-oom bad cold!" Uprose a universal sneeze. Then the "roughing" began, to the tune of "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave" which no man seemed to sing, but every man could hear. They were playing the tune with their feet. The lecturer glared with white repugnance at his tormentors.
"Mug-up, and let's get 'appy and chatty." They crowded together in the stern-sheets for warmth, and presently Thorogood started "John Brown's Body Lies A-mouldering in the Grave," without which no properly conducted picnic can come to a fitting conclusion.
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