Sir Walter Scott

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more

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!

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Every cock fights best on his own dunghill.

Every cock fights best on his own dunghill.

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe! for read more

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft contemplative, and kind.

And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses.

And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses.