The Iron Horse, bearing the blended arms of the two realms on his shield, walks over those battle-fields by night and day, treading their memories deeper and deeper in the dust.

The lambs are playing in the sun on the boundary line of the two dominions.

Does a Scot of to-day love his native land less than the Campbell clansman or clan-chief in Bruce's time?
Not a whit.

He carries a heartful of its choicest memories with him into all countries of his sojourning.

But there is a larger sentiment that includes all these filial feelings towards his motherland, while it draws additional warmth and strength from them.
It is the sentiment of Imperial Nationality; the feeling of a Briton, that does not extinguish nor absorb, nor compete with, the Scot in his heart;--the feeling that he is a political constituent of a mighty nation, whose feet stand upon all the continents of the earth, while it holds the best islands of the sea in its hands;--the feeling with which he says _We_ with all the millions of a dominion on which the sun never sets, and _Our_, when he speaks of its grand and common histories, its hopes, prospects, progress, power and aspirations.
There was a Border-land, dark and bloody, between Saxon England and Celtic Wales.