Thursday, October 07, 2010


My Native Hills

Sir Walter Scott, Rob Roy, chapter XXXV (Rob Roy speaking):
But the heather that I have trod upon when living, must bloom ower me when I am dead—my heart would sink, and my arm would shrink and wither like fern in the frost, were I to lose sight of my native hills; nor has the world a scene that would console me for the loss of the rocks and cairns, wild as they are, that you see around us.
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