Poem by Francis Bret Harte

Our Privilege

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 Baker's crimson tide.

And thus apart our hearts keep time
  With every pulse ye feel,
And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime
  With Valor's clashing steel.

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