Then in a hollow revery said
“The weakness thing is lustihood;
But Mosby—” and he checked his mood.
“Where’s the advance?—cut off, by heaven!
Come, Surgeon, how with your wounded there”
“The ambulance will carry all”
“Well, get them in; we go to camp.
Seven prisoners gone? for the rest have care”
Then to himself, “This grief is gall;
That Mosby!—I’ll cast a silver ball!”