That captain was a valorous one
  (No irony, but honest truth),
Yet down from his brain cold drops distilled,
Making stalactites in his heart—­
  A conscientious soul, forsooth;
    And with a formal hate was filled
    Of Mosby’s band; and some he’d killed.

Meantime the lady rueful sat,
  Watching the flicker of a fire
Were the Colonel played the outdoor host
In brave old hall of ancient Night. 
  But ever the dame grew shyer and shyer,
    Seeming with private grief engrossed—­
    Grief far from Mosby, housed or lost.

The ruddy embers showed her pale. 
  The Soldier did his best devoir: 
“Some coffee?—­no?—­cracker?—­one”
Cared for her servant—­sought to cheer: 
  “I know, I know—­a cruel war! 
    But wait—­even Mosby’ll eat his bun;
    The Old Hearth—­back to it anon!”

But cordial words no balm could bring;
  She sighed, and kept her inward chafe,
And seemed to hate the voice of glee—­
Joyless and tearless.  Soon he called
  An escort:  “See this lady safe
    In yonder house.—­Madam, you’re free. 
    And now for Mosby.—­Guide! with me.”

("A night-ride, eh?”) “Tighten your girths! 
  But, buglers! not a note from you. 
Fling more rails on the fires—­a blaze”
("Sergeant, a feint—­I told you so—­
  Toward Aldie again.  Bivouac, adieu!”)
    After the cheery flames they gaze,
    Then back for Mosby through the maze.

The moon looked through the trees, and tipped
  The scabbards with her elfin beam;
The Leader backward cast his glance,
Proud of the cavalcade that came—­
  A hundred horses, bay and cream: 
    “Major! look how the lads advance—­
    Mosby we’ll have in the ambulance!”

“No doubt, no doubt:—­was that a hare?—­
  First catch, then cook; and cook him brown”
“Trust me to catch,” the other cried—­
“The lady’s letter!—­a dance, man, dance
  This night is given in Leesburg town”
    “He’ll be there too!” wheezed out the Guide;
    “That Mosby loves a dance and ride!”

“The lady, ah!—­the lady’s letter—­
  A lady, then, is in the case”
Muttered the Major.  “Ay, her aunt
Writes her to come by Friday eve
  (To-night), for people of the place,
    At Mosby’s last fight jubilant,
    A party give, though table-cheer be scant.”

The Major hemmed.  “Then this night-ride
  We owe to her?—­One lighted house
In a town else dark.—­The moths, begar! 
Are not quite yet all dead!” “How? how”
  “A mute, meek mournful little mouse!—­
    Mosby has wiles which subtle are—­
    But woman’s wiles in wiles of war!”

“Tut, Major! by what craft or guile—­”
  “Can’t tell! but he’ll be found in wait. 
Softly we enter, say, the town—­
Good! pickets post, and all so sure—­
  When—­crack! the rifles from every gate,
    The Gray-backs fire—­dashes up and down—­
    Each alley unto Mosby known!”