Jerked along in the woodland ride,
While Mosby’s clan their revery hide.
The Hospital Steward—even he—
Who on the sleeper kept his glance,
Was changed; late bright-black beard and eye
Looked now hearse-black; his heavy heart,
Like his fagged mare, no more could dance;
His grape was now a raisin dry:
’Tis Mosby’s homily—Man must die.
The amber sunset flushed the camp