(Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.)
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
Where the land is scarred and peeled,
And the broken battlefield
Bears its red and deadly yield—
Wearily.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
To the wind and dew and rain
Of a shorn and shotted plain,
Till stranger hands again
Discover thee.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
To the clinging, clogging dust—
To the all-destroying crust
Of a clawing, gnawing rust—
Unmercifully.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
But they’ve plugged me good and hard,
So I quit you, trusty pard,
As I creep back rather marred,
To old Blightee.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
With your bore a brilliant sheen,
And your metals black and clean,
Where your brown striped stock and lean
Gleams tigerishly.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
For the wanton weather’s hate,
And careless hands to desecrate
Barrel, bolt and butt and plate,
Unthinkingly.
I really hate to leave you,
Old Fusee—
And I bear a double pain
As I pause to turn again
Where I left you on the plain,
Unwillingly.
THE COLORS OF BLIGHTY.
The shades of red an’ white an’ blue
Mean rather more to me an’ you,
Than just parades an’ bands an’ such
And hollerin’ loud an’ talking much.