My Native Land
Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man, with
soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within
him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath
turn'd
From wandering on a foreign
strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark
him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures
swell;
High though his titles, proud
his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish
can claim;
Despite those titles, power,
and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in
self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go
down
To the vile dust, from whence
he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
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