“Guard! keep your prisoners in the pen,
And let none talk with Mosby’s men.”
That captain was a valorous one
(No irony, but honest truth),
Yet down from his brain cold drops distilled,
Making stalactites in his heart—
A conscientious soul, forsooth;
And with a formal hate was filled
Of Mosby’s band; and some he’d killed.
Meantime the lady rueful sat,