Classic Poem

I' VE shouldered you all the world over,
March'd with you in quick time and slow,
And though I have been such a rover,
You're still the best weapon I know.

To the centre full surely a bullet
At eight hundred yards you will send;
Your trigger whenever I pull it,
Feels just like the touch of a friend.

You saved my life in the Crimea,
When a Russian took aim at my head;
And the blacks didn't like the idea
Of the grease on your bullets of lead.

The Chaplain he wants to convert me,
‘Sir, my rifle converted,’ says I.
‘Shoots better, so if it don't hurt me,
You're perfectly welcome to try.’

But I fear he'll find it a puzzle
To do it, however he may say;
For I always shall load at the muzzle
(If I can, at least) three times a day.

So here's luck to your bayonet and barrel,
Here's luck to your sights and your stock;
When I fight in Her Majesty's quarrel,
May I hold you as firm as a rock.