And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice
Wore the caduceus, black and green.
No wonder he sat so light on his beast;
This cheery man in suit of price
Not even Mosby dared to slice.
They pass the picket by the pine
And hollow log—a lonesome place;
His horse adroop, and pistol clean;
’Tis cocked—kept leveled toward the wood;
Strained vigilance ages his childish face.