In response to daily post’s prompt : Soil
This is a poem written by 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 never within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wondering 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, unhonour’d, and unsung.
………………………………………
