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.