WAS wrought of walnut blocks and rolled rod steel,

I was hammered, lathed, and mandrelled, stock and plate,

I was gauged and tested, bayonet to heel,

Then shipped for service, twenty in a crate.

For I was the calibre fifty,

Hi!—dough-boys, you haven't forgot

The click of my tumblers shifty

And the kick of the butt when I shot?

I was nothing too light on your shoulder,

You were glad when you stacked me o' nights,

But I'd drill an Apach'

From the thousand-yard scratch

If you'd only hold straight on the sights—old sights!

My trusty old Buffington sights!

In oil-soaked chests at Watervliet I've laid,

I have rusted in Vancouver through the rains,

I have scorched on Fort Mohave's baked parade,

And caked with sand at Sedgwick on the plains.

For I led every march on the border,

And I taught every rookie to fight;

Though he'd curse me in close marching order,

Lord!—he'd hug me on picket at night

As he thought of the herd-guard at Buford

When Sitting Bull swooped within reach,

And 'twas every man's life,

It was bullet and knife

Had my cartridges jammed in the breech—lock breech!

In my solid block, hammer-lock breech!

It was I who lashed the Modocs from their lair

With Wheaton in the Tule Lava Bed;

It was I who drove Chief Joseph to despair

When I streaked the slopes of Bear Paw with his dead.

For I was a proof most impressive—

The Springfield the infantry bore—

To redskins with spirits aggressive

That peace is more healthful than war;

I showed them on Musselshell River

And again, yet more plain, at Slim Butte;

They were plucky as sin

But they had to come in

When they found how the Springfield could shoot—

Shoot, shoot!

How my blue-bottle barrel could shoot!

I was Vengeance when, with Miles through trackless snow,

The "fighting Fifth" took toll for Custer's fall;

I was Justice when we flayed Geronimo;

I was Mercy to the famished horde of Gall.

Oh, I was slow-plodding and steady;

Not hot, like the carbine, to raid,

But when he found trouble too ready

He was glad of his big brother's aid;

For sometimes he'd scatter the outposts,

Then wait, if the foe proved too stout,

Till, at "Front into line!"

It was business of mine

While the infantry volleyed the rout—rout, rout!

While I cleared out the village in rout!

But those years have sped; long silent are my lips;

Now my sturdy grandson rules the host I knew,

And a drab-clad army trusts his five-shell clips

As of old the blue-clad held my one shot true.

Still, my dotage takes solace of glory

From my turbulent youth and its scenes.

As vivid with valorous story

As the isles of the far Philippines.

Though the steel-jacket smokeless is sovereign

And I'm proud of my name on his crest,

It was black smoke and lead

When the skirmish lines spread

With the Springfield that conquered the West—West,

West!

With the hard-fighting arm of the West!