The Lost Galleon and Other Tales

Our Privilege

Bret Harte

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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