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—