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Best Famous Sir Walter Scott Poems

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by Sir Walter Scott | |

My Native Land

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.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Road to Roundabout

 Some say that Guy of Warwick 
The man that killed the Cow, 
And brake the mighty Boar alive 
Beyond the bridge at Slough; 
Went up against a Loathly Worm 
That wasted all the Downs, 
And so the roads they twist and squirm 
(If a may be allowed the term) 
From the writhing of the stricken Worm 
That died in seven towns.
I see no scientific proof That this idea is sound, And I should say they wound about To find the town of Roundabout, The merry town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round.
Some say that Robin Goodfellow, Whose lantern lights the meads (To steal a phrase Sir Walter Scott In heaven no longer needs), Such dance around the trysting-place The moonstruck lover leads; Which superstition I should scout There is more faith in honest doubt (As Tennyson has pointed out) Than in those nasty creeds.
But peace and righteousness (St John) In Roundabout can kiss, And since that's all that's found about The pleasant town of Roundabout, The roads they simply bound about To find out where it is.
Some say that when Sir Lancelot Went forth to find the Grail, Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roads For hope that he would fail; All roads lead back to Lyonesse And Camelot in the Vale, I cannot yield assent to this Extravagant hypothesis, The plain, shrewd Briton will dismiss Such rumours (Daily Mail).
But in the streets of Roundabout Are no such factions found, Or theories to expound about, Or roll upon the ground about, In the happy town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round.


by William Topaz McGonagall | |

The City of Perth

 Beautiful Ancient City of Perth,
One of the fairest on the earth,
With your stately mansions and scenery most fine,
Which seems very beautiful in the summer time;
And the beautiful silvery Tay,
Rolling smoothly on its way,
And glittering like silver in the sunshine -
And the Railway Bridge across it is really sublime.
The scenery is very beautiful when in full bloom, It far excels the river Doon - For the North Inch and South Inch is most beautiful to behold, Where the buttercups do shine in the sunshine like gold.
And there's the Palace of Scone, most beautiful to be seen, Near by the river Tay and the North Inch so green, Whereon is erected the statue of Prince Albert, late husband of the Queen, And also the statue of Sir Walter Scott is moat beautiful to be seen, Erected on the South Inch, which would please the Queen, And recall to her memory his novels she has read - And came her to feel a pang for him that is dead.
Beautiful City of Perth, along the river Tay, I must conclude ms lay, And to write in praise of thee my heart does not gainsay, To tell the world fearlessly, without the least dismay - With your stately mansions and the beautiful river Tay, You're one of the fairest Cities of the present day.


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by Sir Walter Scott | |

The Truth of Woman

 Woman's faith, and woman's trust -
Write the characters in the dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh'd a grain of sand 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I told my true love of the token, How her faith proved light, and her word was broken: Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Patriotism 01 Innominatus

 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.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

The Rovers Adieu

 weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green— No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.
' —He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.
'


by Sir Walter Scott | |

The Maid of Neidpath

 O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see, 
And lovers’ ears in hearing; 
And love, in life’s extremity, 
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary’s bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower To watch her Love’s returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decay’d by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining.
By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seem’d in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog prick’d his ear She heard her lover’s riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenn’d She knew and waved to greet him, And o’er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him.
He came—he pass’d—an heedless gaze As o’er some stranger glancing: Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser’s prancing— The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

The Outlaw

 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 
Would grace a summer queen: 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 
Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 
Was singing merrily:— 

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green! 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
Than reign our English Queen.
' 'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down: And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.
' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.
'I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the King's green-wood.
' 'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.
' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay! I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May! 'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.
' 'I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.
'And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! 'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.
' Chorus Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer queen.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

To a Lock of Hair

 Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
As in that well - remember'd night
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
Since then how often hast thou prest The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin that peopled hell; A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! O if such clime thou canst endure Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, What conquest o'er each erring thought Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought! I had not wander'd far and wide With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me If she had lived and lived to love me.
Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race And frantic hurry of the chase; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then - from the carcass turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And soothed each wound which pride inflamed: - Yes, God and man might now approve me If thou hadst lived and lived to love me!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Where Shall the Lover Rest

 Where shall the lover rest 
Whom the fates sever 
From the true maiden's breast, 
Parted for ever?-- 
Where, through groves deep and high, 
Sounds the fair billow, 
Where early violets die, 
Under the willow.
Chorus.
Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shall thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never! Chorus.
Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin and leave her?-- In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
,P> Chorus.
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false hearted, His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted, Shame and dishonor sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never! Chorus Never, O never!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

County Guy

 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day Sits hush'd his partner nigh: Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy?


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Datur Hora Quieti

 The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side.
The noble dame, on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song - All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Border Ballad

 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order; England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Brignall Banks

 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 
Would grace a summer queen: 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 
Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 
Was singing merrily:— 

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta woods are green! 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
Than reign our English Queen.
' 'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down: And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.
' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.
'I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the King's green-wood.
' 'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.
' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay! I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May! 'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.
' 'I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.
'And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! 'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.
' Chorus.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer queen.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Coronach

 He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Eleu Loro

 Where shall the lover rest 
Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden’s breast 
Parted for ever? 
Where, through groves deep and high 
Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die 
Under the willow.
Eleu loro Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer day Cool streams are laving: There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden’s breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war’s rattle With groans of the dying; Eleu loro There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap O’er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Gathering Song of Donald the Black

 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
Pibroch of Donuil 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 
Summon Clan Conuil! 
Come away, come away, 
Hark to the summons! 
Come in your war-array, 
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr’d, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master! Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Harp of the North Farewell!

 Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature’s vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
— That I o’erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! ’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, ’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell— And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

It Was an English Ladye Bright

 It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; Her brother gave but a flask of wine, For ire that Love was lord of all.
For she had lands both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see A Scottish knight the lord of all.
That wine she had not tasted well (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell, For Love was still the lord of all! He pierced her brother to the heart, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:-- So perish all would true love part That Love may still be lord of all! And then he took the cross divine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And died for her sake in Palestine; So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Jock of Hazeldean

 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
Why weep ye by the tide? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
And ye sall be his bride: 
And ye sall be his bride, ladie, 
Sae comely to be seen"-- 
But aye she loot the tears sown fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha' His sword in battle keen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold you sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha'; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Lucy Ashtons Song

 Look not thou on beauty's charming; 
Sit thou still when kings are arming; 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; 
Speak not when the people listens; 
Stop thine ear against the singer; 
From the red gold keep thy finger; 
Vacant heart and hand and eye, 
Easy live and quiet die.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Patriotism 1. Innominatus

 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.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

MacGregors Gathering

 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo! Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach! Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c.
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers, Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours; We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach! Landless, landless, landless, &c.
But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword! Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach! Courage, courage, courage, &c.
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles, Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles! Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach! Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.
While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever! Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach, Come then, come then, come then, &c.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career, O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer, And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt! Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Gather, gather, gather, &c.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Lullaby of an Infant Chief

 hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

On Leaving Mrs. Browns Lodgings

 So goodbye, Mrs.
Brown, I am going out of town, Over dale, over down, Where bugs bite not, Where lodgers fight not, Where below your chairmen drink not, Where beside your gutters stink not; But all is fresh and clean and gay, And merry lambkins sport and play, And they toss with rakes uncommonly short hay, Which looks as if it had been sown only the other day, And where oats are twenty-five shillings a boll, they say; But all's one for that, since I must and will away.