Said one right out. “O for a bed!
O now to drop in this woodland green”
He drops as the syllables leave his mouth—
Mosby speaks from the undergrowth—
Speaks in a volley! out jets the flame!
Men fall from their saddles like plums from trees;
Horses take fright, reins tangle and bind;
“Steady—Dismount—form—and into the wood”
They go, but find what scarce can please:
Their steeds have been tied in the field behind,