On Feb 11, 7:44 am, Lee <[email protected]> wrote: > We have, like most things, had a bash at this here before, but I still > have unresovled questions so here goes again. > > I'm not really a patriot, it's not that I hate my country, I certianly > don't, but I don't really love it either. I don't feel anything for > the land in which I have been blessed to be born. > > I don't get patriotism, I simply don't understand how one can feel > pride in the achivments of ones country without also feeling the shame > for the shamefull things, and most patriots that I am aware of > certianly do not exhibit that they feel such shame, whilst the pride > of any patriot is almost overwhelming. I don't undertand this. > > What vaule or merit is there in patriotism? > > In the interest of full disclosure though I must admit that as a > native Londoner, my heart does skip a beat everytime hear a London > accent on the TV, or in a piece of music, yet I have come to quite > detest the city(perhaps this is just my age?). I feel no pride in > being a Londoner, the footie team I support is a Northen english one, > yand I certianly can't explain this heart skipping thing at all. > > What do you think?©
I think Sir Walter Scott had it pretty nailed: Lay of the Last Minstrel 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! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and, wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way., Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. cheers oz, one time scholar...(long time ago) -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups ""Minds Eye"" group. To post to this group, send email to [email protected]. To unsubscribe from this group, send email to [email protected]. For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.com/group/minds-eye?hl=en.
