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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 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?

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Written 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.

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 |


 O listen, listen, ladies gay! 
No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle lady, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
‘The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
‘Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?’ ’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heir Tonight at Roslin leads the ball, But that my lady-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
’Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.
’ —O’er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; ’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin’s castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; ’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak, And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden.
Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem’d all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar’s pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair— So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each Saint Clair was buried there With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Written 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!

Written 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!

Written by Sir Walter Scott |

Bonny Dundee

 To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke.
‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port and let me gang free, And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’ Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.
’ Come fill up my cup, etc.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! Come fill up my cup, etc.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; ‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
’ Come fill up my cup, etc.
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes— ‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
‘There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth, If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
‘There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
‘Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks— Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’ Come fill up my cup, etc.
He waved his proud hand, the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!

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 |

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.

Written 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!

Written 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.

Written by Sir Walter Scott |


 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!

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.