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THE SPRINGFIELD CALIBRE FIFTY
I
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! |
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