And in spite of tears and his mother's fears,

On the gray mare, off he flies.

Like a wild young Tam O'Shanter

He plunged with piercing whoop,

O'er field and brook till he overtook

The straggling Rebel troop.

Laden with spoil and plunder,

And laughing and shouting still,

As with cattle and sheep they lazily creep

Through the dust o'er the winding hill.