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.
Brilliant, what a superb poem. I have been away from Scotland for over 40 years and will never forget where I came from.
Add a comment.you are awesome í ¼í¾í ½í¸í ½í·½í ½í°
Burn'd, Turn'd Words like these are pronounced Burned, Turned
this is a poem my class is studying right now, but I have already learned it.
Found this poem in 1888 north carolina history book recently.
Learnt this poem as a school girl not knowing that years later it would ring so true..the pull of my native land gets stronger with the years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
'Beneath the veneer of armor of every Warrior, Beats the Heart of a true Romantic.' HRL