Our Privilege
By Bret Harte (Francis)
Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,
And battle dews lie wet,
To meet the charge that treason hurls
By sword and bayonet.
Not ours to guide the fatal scythe
The fleshless Reaper wields;
The harvest moon looks calmly down
Upon our peaceful fields.
The long grass dimples on the hill,
The pines sing by the sea,
And Plenty, from her golden horn,
Is pouring far and free.
O brothers by the farther sea!
Think still our faith is warm;
The same bright flag above us waves
That swathed our baby form.
The same red blood that dyes your fields
Here throbs in patriot pride,
The blood that flowed when Lander fell,
And Bakers crimson tide.
And thus apart our hearts keep time
With every pulse ye feel,
And Mercys ringing gold shall chime
With Valors clashing steel.