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! NOVEMBER, 1859. SONNETS. HOPE DEFERRED.