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