Breathes there a man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said

"This is my own, my native land,"

Whose heart has ne'er within him burned

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on some foreign strand?

If such there breathes, 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

And doubly dying shall go down

Into the Earth from whence he sprung

Unwept, unhonoured and unsung.

-Walter Scott