Religion stands on tiptoe in our land,

Ready to pass to the American strand.

George Herbert (1593-1632): The Church Militant.

It was a' for our rightfu' King

We left fair Scotland's strand.

Robert Burns (1759-1796): A' for our Rightfu' King.

As with my hat upon my head

I walk'd along the Strand,

I there did meet another man

With his hat in his hand.

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784): Johnsoniana. George Steevens. 310.

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,

Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand.

Reginald Heber (1783-1826): Missionary Hymn.

What's not devoured by Time's devouring hand?

Where's Troy, and where's the Maypole in the Strand?

James Bramston (1694-1744): Art of Politics.

Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand,

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,

Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Fancy in Nubibus.

In listening mood she seemed to stand,

The guardian Naiad of the strand.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Lady of the Lake. Canto i. Stanza 17.

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.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Lay of the Last Minstrel. Canto vi. Stanza 1.