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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 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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Sound Sound the Clarion

 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.


by Sir Walter Scott | |

A Serenade

 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 trill’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 | |

Here’s a Health to King Charles

 Bring the bowl which you boast, 
Fill it up to the brim; 
’Tis to him we love most, 
And to all who love him.
Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt ye, base carles! Were there death in the cup, Here’s a health to King Charles.
Though he wanders through dangers, Unaided, unknown, Dependent on strangers, Estranged from his own; Though ’tis under our breath, Amidst forfeits and perils, Here’s to honor and faith, And a health to King Charles! Let such honors abound As the time can afford, The knee on the ground, And the hand on the sword; But the time shall come round When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, The loud trumpet shall sound, Here’s a health to King Charles!


by Sir Walter Scott | |

Hunters Song

 The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, 
Ever sing merrily, merrily; 
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, 
Hunters live so cheerily.
It was a stag, a stag of ten, Bearing its branches sturdily; He came silently down the glen, Ever sing hardily, hardily.
It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warned him of the toils below, O so faithfully, faithfully! He had an eye, and he could heed, Ever sing so warily, warily; He had a foot, and he could speed-- Hunters watch so narrowly.