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