“Forgotten about Manassas yet”
Chatting and chaffing, and tit for tat,
Mosby’s clan with the troopers sat.
“Here comes the moon!” a captive cried;
“A song! what say? Archy, my lad”
Hailing are still one of the clan
(A boyish face with girlish hair),
“Give us that thing poor Pansy made
Last Year.” He brightened, and began;
And this was the song of Mosby’s man: