PATRIOTISM
Breathes there a 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 burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wanderings on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well!
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High tho’ his 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, unhonored, and unsung. Sir Walter Scott
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