From far to the rear came the voice of old Wilkerson: "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground--" A few near him, as they stood waiting, began to take up the burden of the song, singing in slow time like a dirge; then those further away took it up; it spread, reached the leaders; they, too, began to sing, taking off their hats as they joined in; and soon the whole concourse, solemn, earnest, and uncovered, was singing--a thunderous requiem for John Harkless.
The sun was swinging lower and the edges of the world were embroidered with gold while that deep volume of sound shook the air, the song of a stern, savage, just cause--sung, perhaps, as some of the ancestors of these men sang with Hampden before the bristling walls of a hostile city.

It had iron and steel in it.

The men lying on their guns in the ambuscade along the fence heard the dirge rise and grow to its mighty fulness, and they shivered.

One of them, posted nearest the advance, had his rifle carefully levelled at Lige Willetts, a fair target in the road.

When he heard the singing, he turned to the man next behind him and laughed harshly: "I reckon we'll see a big jamboree in hell to-night, huh ?" 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! His soul goes marching on!" A gun spat from the higher ground, and Willetts dropped where he stood, but was up again in a second, with a red line across his forehead where the ball had grazed his temple.