Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said
"This is my home, my native land?"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wand'ring on a foreign strand?
If such there be, go mark him well.
For him, no minstrel raptures swell
High though his title, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish could claim:
Despite these titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self
da da da da da da da
God damn! I used to know the whole fucking thing. I almost got through to the end. The moral being, the guy who is NOT a patriot is a miserable schmuck who dies alone, "unwept, unhonoured and unsung." Great poem. One of my dad's favourites. The opposite to Samuel Johnson's dictum that "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel," which I like even better. (more realistic)