No secrets now; the bugle calls;
  The open road they take, nor shun
The hill; retrace the weary way. 
But one there was who whispered low,
  “This is a feint—­we’ll back anon;
    Young Hair-Brains don’t retreat, they say;
    A brush with Mosby is the play!”

They rode till eve.  Then on a farm
  That lay along a hill-side green,
Bivouacked.  Fires were made, and then
Coffee was boiled; a cow was coaxed
  And killed, and savory roasts were seen;
    And under the lee of a cattle-pen
    The guard supped freely with Mosby’s men.

The ball was bandied to and fro;
  Hits were given and hits were met;
“Chickamauga, Feds—­take off your hat”
“But the Fight in the Clouds repaid you, Rebs”
  “Forgotten about Manassas yet”
    Chatting and chaffing, and tit for tat,
    Mosby’s clan with the troopers sat.

“Here comes the moon!” a captive cried;
  “A song! what say?  Archy, my lad”
Hailing are still one of the clan
(A boyish face with girlish hair),
  “Give us that thing poor Pansy made
    Last Year.”  He brightened, and began;
    And this was the song of Mosby’s man: 

      Spring is come; she shows her pass—­
          Wild violets cool! 
      South of woods a small close grass—­
          A vernal wool! 
      Leaves are a’bud on the sassafras—­
          They’ll soon be full;
      Blessings on the friendly screen—­
      I’m for the South! says the leafage green.

      Robins! fly, and take your fill
          Of out-of-doors—­
      Garden, orchard, meadow, hill,
          Barns and bowers;
      Take your fill, and have your will—­
          Virginia’s yours! 
      But, bluebirds! keep away, and fear
      The ambuscade in bushes here.

“A green song that,” a seargeant said;
  “But where’s poor Pansy? gone, I fear”
“Ay, mustered out at Ashby’s Gap”
“I see; now for a live man’s song;
  Ditty for ditty—­prepare to cheer. 
    My bluebirds, you can fling a cap! 
    You barehead Mosby-boys—­why—­clap!”

      Nine Blue-coats went a-nutting
        Slyly in Tennessee—­
      Not for chestnuts—­better than that—­
        Hugh, you bumble-bee! 
          Nutting, nutting—­
          All through the year there’s nutting!

      A tree they spied so yellow,
        Rustling in motion queer;
      In they fired, and down they dropped—­
        Butternuts, my dear! 
          Nutting, nutting—­
          Who’ll ’list to go a-nutting?

Ah! why should good fellows foemen be? 
  And who would dream that foes they were—­
Larking and singing so friendly then—­
A family likeness in every face. 
  But Captain Cloud made sour demur: 
    “Guard! keep your prisoners in the pen,
    And let none talk with Mosby’s men.”