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From the lone shielding on the misty island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas-- But still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.

My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land--Good Night!

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing. To wander along by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

Our country is wherever we are well off.

And nobler is a limited command, Given by the love of all your native land, Than a successive title, long and dark, Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.

He made all countries where he came his own.

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more.

They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty.

To be really cosmopolitan a man must be at home even in his own country. - Thomas W. Higginson,

What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

The infant, on opening his eyes, ought to see his country, and to the hour of his death never lose sight of it.

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!

Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!

My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.