For each distrust of a nervous mood,
Long miles we’d make in this our ride
Through Mosby-land.—Oh! with the Guide!”
Then sportful to the Surgeon turned:
“Green sashes hardly serve by night”
“Nor bullets nor bottles,” the Major sighed,
“Against these moccasin-snakes—such foes
As seldom come to solid fight:
They kill and vanish; through grass they glide;
Devil take Mosby!—” his horse here shied.