Thursday, October 07, 2010
My Native Hills
Sir Walter Scott, Rob Roy, chapter XXXV (Rob Roy speaking):
Newer› ‹Older
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.Related posts:
- Parva Domus, Magna Quies
- The Old Man of the Stream
- More on Aglaus of Psophis
- Staying at Home
- Lottites
- There Was an Old Man from Verona
- To Be Happy At Home
- My Little Zoar
- Happy the Man
- Aglaus of Psophis
- Here
- Death Far from Home
