How strong they feel on their horses free,
  Tingles the tendoned thigh with life;
Their cavalry-jackets make boys of all—­
With golden breasts like the oriole;
  The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife. 
    But word is passed from the front—­a call
    For order; the wood is Mosby’s hall.

To which behest one rider sly
  (Spurred, but unarmed) gave little heed—­
Of dexterous fun not slow or spare,
He teased his neighbors of touchy mood,
  Into plungings he pricked his steed: 
    A black-eyed man on a coal-black mare,
    Alive as Mosby in mountain air.

His limbs were long, and large and round;
  He whispered, winked—­did all but shout: 
A healthy man for the sick to view;
The taste in his mouth was sweet at morn;
  Little of care he cared about. 
    And yet of pains and pangs he knew—­
    In others, maimed by Mosby’s crew.

The Hospital Steward—­even he
  (Sacred in person as a priest),
And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice
Wore the caduceus, black and green. 
  No wonder he sat so light on his beast;
    This cheery man in suit of price
    Not even Mosby dared to slice.

They pass the picket by the pine
  And hollow log—­a lonesome place;
His horse adroop, and pistol clean;
’Tis cocked—­kept leveled toward the wood;
  Strained vigilance ages his childish face. 
    Since midnight has that stripling been
    Peering for Mosby through the green.

Splashing they cross the freshet-flood,
  And up the muddy bank they strain;
A horse at the spectral white-ash shies—­
One of the span of the ambulance,
  Black as a hearse.  They give the rein: 
    Silent speed on a scout were wise,
    Could cunning baffle Mosby’s spies.

Rumor had come that a band was lodged
  In green retreats of hills that peer
By Aldie (famed for the swordless charge[22]). 
Much store they’d heaped of captured arms
  And, peradventure, pilfered cheer;
    For Mosby’s lads oft hearts enlarge
    In revelry by some gorge’s marge.

“Don’t let your sabres rattle and ring;
  To his oat-bag let each man give heed—­
There now, that fellow’s bag’s untied,
Sowing the road with the precious grain. 
  Your carbines swing at hand—­you need! 
    Look to yourselves, and your nags beside,
    Men who after Mosby ride.”

Picked lads and keen went sharp before—­
  A guard, though scarce against surprise;
And rearmost rode an answering troop,
But flankers none to right or left. 
  No bugle peals, no pennon flies: 
    Silent they sweep, and fail would swoop
    On Mosby with an Indian whoop.

On, right on through the forest land,
  Nor man, nor maid, nor child was seen—­
Not even a dog.  The air was still;
The blackened hut they turned to see,
  And spied charred benches on the green;
    A squirrel sprang from the rotting mill
    Whence Mosby sallied late, brave blood to spill.