THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO SIXTH. I. 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, From wandering on a foreign strand ! High though his titles, proud his name, To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. II. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends, thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, III. Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall They blew their death-note in the van; But now, for every merry mate, Rose the Portcullis' iron grate; They sound the pipe, they strike the string, They dance, they revel, and they sing, Till the rude turrets shake and ring. IV. Me lists not at this tide declare The splendour of the spousal rite, How mustered in the chapel fair, Both maid and matron, squire and knight; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, |