“Breathes there a man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land.”
—Walter Scott
I saw this stolid man stand tall, and obviously proud.
He wore a bit of blue and white, o, Scotland, strong and stout.
He looked like he had been through brawls; he had a brutal face;
and yet about his hardened look, he had a touch of grace.
I saw it at the edges of his shoulders, arms and back;
I saw it in his hungry look, unsatisfied, alack.
I saw it in his countenance. I saw it in his stance.
Here was a mighty beauty who would neither preen nor prance.
His hands akimbo at his waist, his legs out wide and sure.
I hoped that he would stay with us. He made me feel secure.
Featured Image: “Sir Walter Scott” by John Graham-Gilbert.
