Best Famous Sir Walter Scott Poems

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Written by Sir Walter Scott | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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?
Written by Sir Walter Scott | Create an image from this poem


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 | Create an image from this poem

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 Sir Walter Scott | Create an image from this poem


 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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Patriotism 02 Nelson Pitt Fox

 TO mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise; The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave! To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given.
Where'er his country's foes were found Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd--and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave! --His worth, who in his mightiest hour A bauble held the pride of power, Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, The pride he would not crush, restrain'd, Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, The trumpet's silver voice is still, The warder silent on the hill! O think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, With Palinure's unalter'd mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till in his fall with fateful sway The steerage of the realm gave way.
Then--while on Britain's thousand plains One polluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, But still upon the hallow'd day Convoke the swains to praise and pray; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear:-- He who preserved them, PITT, lies here! Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy Requiescat dumb Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow-- They sleep with him who sleeps below: And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppress'd, And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; Here, where the fretted vaults prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, 'All peace on earth, good-will to men'; If ever from an English heart, O, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record that Fox a Briton died! When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was barter'd by a timorous slave-- Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, The sullied olive-branch return'd, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nail'd her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honour'd grave; And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust.
With more than mortal powers endow'd, How high they soar'd above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled gods, their mighty war Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Look'd up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these, The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, Where--taming thought to human pride!-- The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry, 'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?'
Written by Sir Walter Scott | Create an image from this poem

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.