The First, Best Country
BUT where to find the happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the goods they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.
And yet perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
From "The Traveller."
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."
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 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!
My Heart's in the Highlands
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
Home The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Country Farewell to the mountains high covered with
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
ROBERT BURNS.
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
'Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
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