There is something 'bout a rifle ball-
Whistling past your ear-
Which turns the blood to water,
And makes you cringe in fear.
They're but a coward's weapon,
A pox that they've been made-
Take me back to days of yore...
When men lived by the blade.
When all that stood twixt men and doom
Was steel, as cold as death-
And blood, and guts...and gritted teeth-
And shouts and labored breath-
The clash of arms, the battle cries-
The kiss of razor blade-
To speed one on the path to hell-
Where warriors beds are made.
Far closer than a favored tart
The blade hung at his side-
And dearer far, to warriors heart
Than brother, or his bride.
When sword and shield did rule the field
And warriors did not quail-
But fought and died, sword by their side-
Thus goes the Traveler's Tale.