BREATHES THERE THE MAN

Sir Walter Scott

Breaths 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 burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
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, concentrated 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.

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