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Best Famous Sir Walter Scott Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sir Walter Scott poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sir Walter Scott poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sir Walter Scott poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Sir Walter Scott poems.

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Written 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.

Written by Sir Walter Scott | |


Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none, But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, ‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’ ‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.
’ The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, ‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
’ One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! ‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Written 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.

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Written 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.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |


 Beautiful city of Glasgow, with your streets so neat and clean,
Your stateley mansions, and beautiful Green!
Likewise your beautiful bridges across the River Clyde,
And on your bonnie banks I would like to reside.
Chorus -- Then away to the west -- to the beautiful west! To the fair city of Glasgow that I like the best, Where the River Clyde rolls on to the sea, And the lark and the blackbird whistle with glee.
'Tis beautiful to see the ships passing to and fro, Laden with goods for the high and the low; So let the beautiful city of Glasgow flourish, And may the inhabitants always find food their bodies to nourish.
Chorus The statue of the Prince of Orange is very grand, Looking terror to the foe, with a truncheon in his hand, And well mounted on a noble steed, which stands in the Trongate, And holding up its foreleg, I'm sure it looks first-rate.
Chorus Then there's the Duke of Wellington's statue in Royal Exchange Square -- It is a beautiful statue I without fear declare, Besides inspiring and most magnificent to view, Because he made the French fly at the battle of Waterloo.
Chorus And as for the statue of Sir Walter Scott that stands in George Square, It is a handsome statue -- few with it can compare, And most elegant to be seen, And close beside it stands the statue of Her Majesty the Queen.
Chorus And then there's the statue of Robert Burns in George Square, And the treatment he received when living was very unfair; Now, when he's dead, Scotland's sons for him do mourn, But, alas! unto them he can never return.
Chorus Then as for Kelvin Grove, it is most lovely to be seen With its beautiful flowers and trees so green, And a magnificent water-fountain spouting up very high, Where the people can quench their thirst when they feel dry.
Chorus Beautiful city of Glasgow, I now conclude my muse, And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse; And, without fear of contradiction, I will venture to say You are the second grandest city in Scotland at the present day!

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |

Jottings of New York

 Oh, mighty city of New York, you are wonderful to behold--
Your buildings are magnificent-- the truth be it told--
They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,
Because many of them are thirteen storeys high;

And as for Central Park, it is lovely to be seen--
Especially in the summer season when its shrubberies are green
And the Burns Statue is there to be seen,
Surrounded by trees on the beautiful sward so green;
Also Shakespeare and the immortal Sir Walter Scott,
Which by Scotchmen and Englishmen will never be forgot.
There are people on the Sabbath day in thousands resort-- All lov'd, in conversation, and eager for sport; And some of them viewing the wild beasts there, While the joyous shouts of children does rend the air-- And also beautiful black swans, I do declare.
And there's beautiful boats to be seen there, And joyous shouts of children does rend the air, While the boats sail along with them o'er Lohengrin Lake, And fare is 5 cents for children, and adults ten is all they take.
And there's also summer-house shades, and merry-go-rounds And with the merry laughter of the children the Park resounds, During the live-long Sabbath day Enjoying themselves at the merry-go-round play.
Then there's the elevated railroads abont five storeys high, Which the inhabitants can hear night and day passing by; Of, such a mass of people there daily do throng-- No less than five 100,000 daily pass along; And all along the city you can get for five cents-- And, believe me, among the passengers there's few discontent.
And the top of the houses are mostly all flat, And in the warm weather the people gather to chat; Besides, on the housetops they dry their clothes; And, also, many people all night on the housetops repose.
And numerous ships end steamboats are there to be seen, Sailing along the East River water, which is very green-- Which is certainly a most beautiful sight To see them sailing o'er the smooth water day and night.
And as for Brooklyn Bridge, it's a very great height, And fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight; And with all its loftiness I venture to say It cannot surpass the new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay.
And there's also ten thousand rumsellers there-- Oh, wonderful to think of, I do declare! To accommodate the people of New York therein, And to encourage them to commit all sorts of sin.
And on the Sabbath day ye will see many a man Going for beer with a big tin can, And seems proud to be seen carrying home the beer To treat his neighbours and his family dear.
Then at night numbers of the people dance and sing, Making the walls of their houses to ring With their songs and dancing on Sabbath night, Which I witnessed with disgust, and fled from the sight.
And with regard to New York and the sights I did see-- Believe me, I never saw such sights in Dundee; And the morning I sailed from the city of New York My heart it felt as light as a cork.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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!

Written 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.
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!

Written 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?

Written 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!