Oliver Goldsmith.
My Native Land
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's 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, unhonored, and unsung.
Sir Walter Scott.
From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
Loyalty
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, wha attempted to save;
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave:
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e,
"I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie."
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,
Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!