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 had turned parson, and 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, or 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;