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LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
This is my own, my native land!
From wandering on a foreign strand!
High though his titles, proud his name,
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child!Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand!Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall