Three Years in the Confederate Horse Artillery — George Michael Neese.

November 29 — I had some Yankee prisoners in charge last night. This afternoon an alarm reached camp that the Yankees were advancing on Winchester. We were immediately ordered to pack up our all and load it on the wagons, then we were ordered with the battery east of Winchester, on the Berryville pike, at the eastern outskirts of Winchester. The Maryland Line of infantry formed a line of battle on the south side of the pike, right opposite our battery. After we were in battle line an hour or so, and everything had settled down to the quiet hush of stilly night, the Maryland Line struck up and sang a lively and sentimental, yet pathetic song — “Annie Lyle.” It was well rendered. The deep, rich, full, round bass voices blended harmoniously with the clear and flowing tenors, and the spoken melody that floated on the frosty night air was as delightful and agreeable to the ear as the whisperings of an evening wind when it breathes its vesper hymn for dying day. There is a charm and an inspiration about music,— even in a simple song,— that those that have never heard it steal along a battle line in the silent watches of the night cannot comprehend the fullness of its enrapturing and inspiring influences. When the alarm reached Winchester that the Yankees were coming it caused great excitement among the citizens. When we passed through town toward the Berryville road, where it was reported that the enemy was approaching, the town was all in a stirred-up bustle. Men were running to and fro on the streets. Some of them looked and acted as if they would like to pick up the town and move it deeper into Dixie. The Yankees did not advance to-night, and when we came back to camp, which was nearly at midnight, all the excitement in town had died away. The streets were dark and silent save the sound of the steady tread of the soldier and the rumbling of artillery wheels. The city was asleep.