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OT 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.