The Reveille

Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;
Lo! a nations hosts have gathered
Round the quick alarming drum,
Saying, Come,
Freemen, come!
Ere your heritage be wasted, said the quick alarming drum.

Let me of my heart take counsel:
War is not of life the sum;
Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?
But the drum
Echoed, Come!
Death shall reap the braver harvest, said the solemn-sounding drum.

But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?
What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?
But the drum
Answered, Come!
You must do the sum to prove it, said the Yankee answering drum.

What if, mid the cannons thunder,
Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
When my brothers fall around me,
Should my heart grow cold and numb?
But the drum
Answered, Come!
Better there in death united, than in life a recreant. Come!

Thus they answered, hoping, fearing,
Some in faith, and doubting some,
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said, My chosen people, come!
Then the drum,
Lo! was dumb,
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, Lord, we come!

Bret Harte

Bret Harte was an American author and poet, renowned for his works about pioneering life in California. Born on August 25, 1836, he gained national fame with his short stories and poetry depicting life in the early mining camps. His most famous works include 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' and 'The Outcasts of Poker Flat.' Harte's writings played a crucial role in shaping the Western genre in American literature. He passed away on May 5, 1902.

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English

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We meet in peace, though from our native East
The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast
Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red
With darker tints than those Aurora spread.
Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed
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Still striving upward, in meridian pride,
He climbed the walls that East and West divide,
Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand,
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From his high vantage oer eternal snows;
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Our Army Of The Dead.

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes - is our Army of the Dead.

On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine,
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Our Army Of The Dead.

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

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On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green,
By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast,
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Songs of the Fleet - The Song of the Guns at Sea

    Oh hear!    Oh hear!
    Across the sullen tide
    Across the echoing dome horizon-wide
    What pulse of fear
    Beats with tremendous boom!
    What call of instant doom,
    With thunderstroke of terror and of pride,
    With urgency that may not be denied,
    Reverberates upon the heart's own drum
    Come! . . .    Come! . . . for thou must come!

    Come forth, O Soul!
    This is thy day of power.
    This is the day and this the glorious hour
    That was the goal
    Of thy self-conquering strife.
    The love of child and wife,
    The fields of Earth and the wide ways of Thought--
    Did not thy purpose count them all as nought
    That in this moment thou thyself mayst give
    And in thy country's life for ever live?

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The Reveille

Trumpets of the Lancer Corps
Sound a loud reveille;
Sound it over Sydney shore,
Send the message far and wide
Down the Richmond River side.
Boot and Saddle, mount and ride,
Sound a loud reveille.

Whither go ye, Lancers gay,
With your bold reveille?
O'er the ocean far away
From your sunny southern home,
Over leagues of trackless foam
In a foreign land to roam,
With your bold reveille.

When we hear our brethren call,
Sound a clear reveille.
Then we answer, one and all,
Answer that the world may see,
Of the English stock are we,
At their side we still will be,
Sound a bold reveille.

English troops are buried deep.
Sound a soft reveille.
In this foreign land asleep,
Underneath Majuba Hill,
Lying sleepi...

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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 Bakers crimson tide.

And thus apart our hearts keep time
With every pulse ye feel,
And Mercys rin...

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