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!