THE IMP IN NANJEMOY.


Dull in the night, when the camps were still,
Thumped two nags over Good Hope Hill;
The white deserter, the passing spy,
Took to the brush as the pair went by;
The army mule gave over the chase;
The Catholic negro, hearing the pace,
Said, as they splashed through Oxon Run:
"Dey ride like de soldiers who speared God's Son!"
But when Good Friday's bells behind
Died in the capital on the wind,
He who rode foremost paused to say:
"Herold, spur up to my side, scared boy!
A word has rung in my ears all day--
Merely a jingle, 'Nanjemoy.'"

"Ha!" said Herold, "John, why that's
A little old creek on the river. Surratt's
Lies just before us. You halt on the green
While I slip in the tavern and get your carbine!"
The outlaw drank of the whiskey deep,
Which the tipsy landlord, half asleep,
Brought to his side, and his broken foot
He raised from the stirrup and slashed the boot.
"Lloyd," he cried, "if some news you invite--
Old Seward was stabbed in his bed to-night.
Lincoln _I_ shot--that long-lived fox--