poetry 2

LINES FROM THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL:
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 hat never with in him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd.
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breath, go, mark , him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as with can  claim:
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentrate all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung 
Un wept, unhonour'd and unsung.....