Breathes There the Man (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 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, concentred all in
self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go
down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and
unsung.
last changes 31.08.2013, Peter Schmieder