“Save what we’ve got,” the Major said;
  “Bad plan to make a scout too long;
The tide may turn, and drag them back,
And more beside.  These rides I’ve been,
  And every time a mine was sprung. 
    To rescue, mind, they won’t be slack—­
    Look out for Mosby’s rifle-crack.”

“We’ll welcome it! give crack for crack! 
  Peril, old lad, is what I seek”
“O then, there’s plenty to be had—­
By all means on, and have our fill”
  With that, grotesque, he writhed his neck,
    Showing a scar by buck-shot made—­
    Kind Mosby’s Christmas gift, he said.

“But, Colonel, my prisoners—­let a guard
  Make sure of them, and lead to camp. 
That done, we’re free for a dark-room fight
If so you say.”  The other laughed;
  “Trust me, Major, nor throw a damp. 
    But first to try a little sleight—­
    Sure news of Mosby would suit me quite.”

Herewith he turned—­“Reb, have a dram”
  Holding the Surgeon’s flask with a smile
To a young scapegrace from the glen. 
“O yes!” he eagerly replied,
  “And thank you, Colonel, but—­any guile? 
    For if you think we’ll blab—­why, then
    You don’t know Mosby or his men.”

The Leader’s genial air relaxed. 
  “Best give it up,” a whisperer said. 
“By heaven, I’ll range their rebel den”
“They’ll treat you well,” the captive cried;
  “They’re all like us—­handsome—­well bred: 
    In wood or town, with sword or pen,
    Polite is Mosby, bland his men.”

“Where were you, lads, last night?—­come, tell”
  “We?—­at a wedding in the Vale—­
The bridegroom our comrade; by his side
Belisent, my cousin—­O, so proud
  Of her young love with old wounds pale—­
    A Virginian girl!  God bless her pride—­
    Of a crippled Mosby-man the bride!”

“Four wall shall mend that saucy mood,
  And moping prisons tame him down”
Said Captain Cloud.  “God help that day”
Cried Captain Morn, “and he so young. 
  But hark, he sings—­a madcap one”
    “O we multiply merrily in the May,
    The birds and Mosby’s men, they say!”

While echoes ran, a wagon old,
  Under stout guard of Corporal Chew
Came up; a lame horse, dingy white,
With clouted harness; ropes in hand,
  Cringed the humped driver, black in hue;
    By him (for Mosby’s band a sight)
    A sister-rebel sat, her veil held tight.

“I picked them up,” the Corporal said,
  “Crunching their way over stick and root,
Through yonder wood.  The man here—­Cuff—­
Says they are going to Leesburg town”
  The Colonel’s eye took in the group;
    The veiled one’s hand he spied—­enough! 
    Not Mosby’s.  Spite the gown’s poor stuff,

Off went his hat:  “Lady, fear not;
  We soldiers do what we deplore—­
I must detain you till we march”
The stranger nodded.  Nettled now,
  He grew politer than before:—­
    “’Tis Mosby’s fault, this halt and search”
    The lady stiffened in her starch.