Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, <br />Who never to himself hath said, <br />This is my own, my native land! <br />Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, <br />As home his footsteps he hath turn'd <br />From wandering on a foreign strand! <br />If such there breathe, go, mark him well; <br />For him no Minstrel raptures swell; <br />High though his titles, proud his name, <br />Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; <br />Despite those titles, power, and pelf, <br />The wretch, concentred all in self, <br />Living, shall forfeit fair renown, <br />And, doubly dying, shall go down <br />To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, <br />Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-native-land/
