Garden, orchard, meadow, hill,
Barns and bowers;
Take your fill, and have your will—
Virginia’s yours!
But, bluebirds! keep away, and fear
The ambuscade in bushes here.
“A green song that,” a seargeant said;
“But where’s poor Pansy? gone, I fear”
“Ay, mustered out at Ashby’s Gap”
“I see; now for a live man’s song;