Maxioms by Sir Walter Scott
Scared out of his seven senses.
Scared out of his seven senses.
Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?
Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?
Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
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Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way:
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
Art thou a friend to Roderick?
Art thou a friend to Roderick?
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more
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 burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
