Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land Whose heart hath neer within him burnd, As home his footsteps he hath turnd 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, unhonord, and unsung.
One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.
My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.
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