Upon the oaken shelf where shadows lie,
Three trusted forms in burnished silence rest;
Their tempered steel beneath the lantern’s eye
Shines like the stars on midnight’s solemn crest.

No idle tools, but comrades tried and true,
They stood when winter’s howl besieged the door,
And in their weight, I find a purpose new—
A bond that echoes through the powder’s roar.

The flintlock, aged, yet noble in its grace,
Doth whisper tales of valor long ago;
The rifle, sharp and steadfast in its place,
Keeps watch o’er fields where wandering winds may blow.

So with a grateful heart, I guard these three—
For in their craft lives trust, and loyalty.