A grudge? Hate will do what it can;
Along he went for a Mosby-man.
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