Walter Scott.

The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet online

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O'er you hovers Odin's daughter ;

Hear the choice she spreads before ye —

Victory, and wealth, and glory ;

Or old Valhalla's roaring hail,

Her ever-circling mead and ale,

Where for eternity unite

The joys of wassail and of fight.

Headlong forward, foot and horsemen,

Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen ! '

$onfi of the SctlantJ JFtsherman.

Farewell, merry maidens, to song and to

For the brave lads of Westra are bound to the

Haaf ;
And we must have labor and hunger and pain,
Ere we dance with the maids of Dunrossness


For now, in our trim boats of Noroway deal,
We must dance on the waves with the porpoise

and seal ;
The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too high,
And the gull be our songstress whene'er she

flits by.

Sing on, my brave bird, while we follow, like

By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms of

the sea ;
And when twenty-score fishes are straining our

Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils shall

be thine.

We '11 sing while we bait and we '11 sing while

we haul,
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough for us

There is torsk for the gentle and skate for the

And there 's wealth for bold Magnus, the son

of the earl.

Huzza ! my brave comrades, give way for the

We shall sooner come back to the dance and

the laugh ;



For light without mirth is a lamp without oil ;
Then, mirth and long life to the bold Magnus
Troil !

Cleoeiano's &onas.

Love wakes and weeps

While Beauty sleeps !
O, for Music's softest numbers,

To prompt a theme

For Beauty's dream,
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers !

Through groves of palm

Sigh gales of balm,
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ;

While through the gloom

Comes soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live !

No dream can give
A shadowed bliss, the real excelling ;

No longer sleep

From lattice peep
And list the tale that Love is telling.

Farewell ! Farewell ! the voice you hear
Has left its last soft tone with you, —

Its next must join the seaward cheer,
And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form
Beneath your frown's controlling check

Must give the word, above the storm,
To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise, —

The hand that shook when pressed to thine,

Must point the guns upon the chase —
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love or hope or fear,

Honor or own, a long adieu !
To all that life has soft and dear

Farewell ! save memory of you !

From " Quentin Durward"


Counts Oug.

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 thrilled all day

Sits hushed 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 !

From " The Betrothed:'


%aXoitx, SHake!

Soldier, wake — the day is peeping,
Honor ne'er was won in sleeping,
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill :
'T is when they are glinted back
From axe and armor, spear and jack,
That they promise future story
Many a page of deathless glory.
Shields that are the foeman's terror
Ever are the morning's mirror.

Arm and up — the morning beam
Hath called the rustic to his team,
Hath called the falconer to the lake,
Hath called the huntsman to the brake j
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of artcient lore.
Soldier, wake — thy harvest, fame ;
Thy study, conquest; war, thy game.
Shield that would be foeman's terror
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain,
More paltry still the sportsman's gain.
Vainest of all, the student's theme
Ends in some metaphysic dream :
Yet each is up and each has toiled
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ;
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame.
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror !
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror !

Ehe &ruth of OToman.

Woman's faith and woman's trust —
Write the characters in 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 strained the spider's thread

'Gainst the promise of a maid ;

I have weighed 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.

From " Woodstock."


&n $our toith Wc\tt.

An hour with thee ! — When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
O, what can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care,
New griefs which coming hours unfold,
And sad remembrance of the old? —

One hour with thee.

One hour with thee ! — When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon,
What shall repay the faithful swain
His labor on the sultry plain,
And more than cave or sheltering bough
Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow ? —
One hour with thee.

One hour with thee ! — When sun is set s
O, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labors of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away ;
The increasing wants and lessening gains,
The master's pride who scorns my pains ? —
One hour with thee.

From " The Fair Maid of Perth."


SThe ILao of 3Joor ILoutse.

An, poor Louise! the livelong day
She roams from cot to castle gay ;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way,
Think on Louise.

Ah, poor I,ouise ! The sun was high,

It smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye,

The woodland walk was cool and nigh,
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie
To cheer Louise.

Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair ;
The wolves molest not paths so fair —
But better far had such been there

For poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise ! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold ;
His baldric was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told

To poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine ;
For peace of mind, that gift divine,
And spotless innocence, were thine,
Ah, poor Louise !

Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure 's reft !
I know not if by force or theft,
Or part by violence, part by gift ;
But misery is all that 's left

To poor Louise.

Let poor Louise some succor have !
She will not long your bounty crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave —
For Heaven has grace and earth a grave
For poor Louise.

Song of tht ffifefHatont.

Yes, thou mayst sigh,
And look once more at all around,
At stream and bank, and sky and ground.
Thy life its final course has found,

And thou must die.

Yes, lay thee down,
And while thy struggling pulses flutter
Bid the gray monk his soul-mass mutter,
And the deep bell its death-tone utter —

Thy life is gone.

Be not afraid.
T is but a pang and then a thrill,
A fever fit and then a chill ;
And then an end of human ill,

For thou art dead.



g>cmgs from tf)e piaps.

From " The Doom of Devorgoil."

Wqt &rm upon the Hake.

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 armor 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.

Somite not that E (SamrtJ.

Admire not that I gained the prize

From all the village crew ;
How could I fail with hand or eyes

When heart and faith were true ?

And when in floods of rosy wine
My comrades drowned their cares,

I thought but that thy heart was mine,
My own leapt light as theirs.

My brief delay then do not blame,
Nor deem your swain untrue ;

My form but lingered at the game,
My soul was still with you.

®mhen the tempest

When the tempest 's at the loudest

On its gale the eagle rides ;
When the ocean rolls the proudest

Through the foam the sea-bird glides ■
All the rage of wind and sea
Is subdued by constancy.

Gnawing want and sickness pining,
All the ills that men endure,

Each their various pangs combining,

Constancy can find a cure —
Pain and Fear and Poverty
Are subdued by constancy.

Bar me from each wonted pleasure,
Make me abject, mean, and poor,

Heap on insults without measure,
Chain me to a dungeon floor —

I '11 be happy, rich, and free,

If endowed with constancy.

Bonng IBtmoee.

Air — " The Bonnets of 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 honor and

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

Come fill up my cup, etc.

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the

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 Grassmarket was

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


Come fill up my cup, etc.



These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ;

But they shrunk to close-heads and the cause-
way 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

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 Mon-
trose !

Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.

* There are hills beyond Pentland and lands be-

yond 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-


There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles be-
side ;

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall
flash free,

At a 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

You have not seen the last of my bonnet and

Come fill up my cup, etc.

He waved his proud hand and 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

Come open your gates and let me gae free,
For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny-
Dundee !

32Shen JFricntis are fftet.

When friends are met o'er merry cheer,
And lovely eyes are laughing near,
And in the goblet's bosom clear

The cares of day are drowned ;
When puns are made and bumpers quaffed,
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laughed,

Then is our banquet crowned,
Ah ! gay,

Then is our banquet crowned.

When glees are sung and catches trolled,
And bashfulness grows bright and bold,
And beauty is no longer cold,

And age no longer dull ;
When chimes are brief and cocks do crow
To tell us it is time to go,
Yet how to part we do not know,

Then is our feast at full,
Ah ! gay,

Then is our feast at full.

Either toe Come.

Hither we come,

Once slaves to the drum,
But no longer we list to its rattle ;

Adieu to the wars,

With their slashes and scars,
The march, and the storm, and the battle.

There are some of us maimed,

And some that are lamed,
And some of old aches are complaining ;

But we '11 take up the tools

Which we flung by like fools,
'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning.

Dick Hathorn doth vow

To return to the plough,
Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer ;

The weaver shall find room

At the wight-wapping loom,
And your clerk shall teach writing and grammar.




Cfje ©rag Brother.

The Pope he was saying the high, high mass

All on Saint Peter's day,
With the power to him given by the saints in

To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,

And the people kneeled around,
And from each man's soul his sins did pass,

As he kissed the holy ground.

And all among the crowded throng

Was still, both limb and tongue,
While through vaulted roof and aisles aloof

The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quivered for fear,

And faltered in the sound —
And when he would the chalice rear

He dropped it to the ground.

' The breath of one of evil deed

Pollutes our sacred day ;
He has no portion in our creed,

No part in what I say.

4 A being whom no blessed word

To ghostly peace can bring,
A wretch at whose approach abhorred

Recoils each holy thing.

* Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise !

My adjuration fear !
I charge thee not to stop my voice,

Nor longer tarry here ! '

Amid them all a pilgrim kneeled

In gown of sackcloth gray ;
Far journeying from his native field,

He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear

I ween he had not spoke, #
And, save with bread and water clear,

His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,

Seemed none more bent to pray ;
But when the Holy Father spoke

He rose and went his way.

Again unto his native land

His weary course he drew,
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,

And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat

Mid Eske's fair woods regain ;
Through woods more fair no stream more sweet

Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,

And vassals bent the knee ;
For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame

Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country still

In battle he had stood,
Ay, even when on the banks of Till

Her noblest poured their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet !

By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep through copsewood deep,

Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,

And yield the muse the day ;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,

May shun the telltale ray ;

From that fair dome where suit is paid

By blast of bugle free,
To Auchendinny's hazel glade

And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove

And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden ?

Yet never a path from day to day

The pilgrim's footsteps range,
Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruined grange.

A woful place was that, I ween,

As sorrow could desire ;
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling

And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While on Carnethy's head
The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams

Had streaked the gray with red,

And the convent bell did vespers tell

Newbattle's oaks among,
And mingled with the solemn knell

Our Ladye's evening song ;

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,

Came slowly down the wind,
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell.

As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,

Nor ever raised his eye,
Until he came to that dreary place

Which did all in ruins lie.



He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,

With many a bitter groan —
And there was aware of a Gray Friar

Resting him on a stone.

• Now, Christ thee save ! ' said the Gray Brother :
1 Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.'

But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,
Nor answer again made he.

'O, come ye from east or come ye from west,
Or bring reliques from over the sea ;

Or come ye from the shrine of Saint James the
Or Saint John of Beverley ? '

' I come not from the shrine of Saint James the

Nor bring reliques from over the sea ;
I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

Which forever will cling to me.'

' Now, woful pilgrim, say not so !

But kneel thee down to me,
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin

That absolved thou mayst be.'

1 And who art' thou, thou Gray Brother,

That I should shrive to thee,
When He to whom are given the keys of earth
and heaven

Has no power to pardon me ? '

' O, I am sent from a distant clime,

Five thousand miles away,
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,

Done here 'twixt night and day.'

The pilgrim kneeled him on the sand,

And thus began his saye —
When on his neck an ice-cold hand

Did that Gray Brother laye.

Bothtoell dastlr.

L« 799-1

WirEN fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers

Are mellowing in the noon ;
When sighs round Pembroke's ruined towers

I DC sultry breath of June ;

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood,

Mum leave his channel dry,
And vainly o'er the limpid flood
ingler guides his fly ;

It chance by Bothwell's lovely braes

A win-!. m r thou hast been,
I )r hid thee from the summer's blaze

In Blantyre's Lowers of green,

Full where the copsewood opens wild

Thy pilgrim step hath staid,
Where Bothwell's towers in ruin piled

O'erlook the verdant glade ;

And many a tale of love and fear
Hath mingled with the scene —

Of Bothwell's banks that bloomed so dear
And Bothwell's bonny Jean.

O, if with rugged minstrel lays

Unsated be thy ear,
And thou of deeds of other days

Another tale wilt hear, —

Then all beneath the spreading beech,

Flung careless on the lea,
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach

Of Bothwell's sisters three.

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head,

He blew his bugle round,
Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood

Has started at the sound.

Saint George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung,

Was waving far and wide,
And from the lofty turret flung

Its crimson blaze on Clyde ;

And rising at the bugle blast
That marked the Scottish foe,

Old England's yeomen mustered fast,
And bent the Norman bow.

Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose,

Proud Pembroke's Earl was he —
While— .

&he Shepherds 3Tak\

And ne'er but once, my son, he says,

Was yon sad cavern trod,
In persecution's, iron days

When the land was left by God.

From Bewlie bog with slaughter red

A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turned his head,

As by fits the night wind blew ;

For trampling round by Cheviot edge

Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelavv ridge

The death-shot flashed between.

The moonbeams through the misty shower

On yon dark cavern fell ;
Through the cloudy night the snow gleamed

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.





' Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,

And cold its jaws of snow ;
But more rough and rude are the men of blood

That hunt my life below !

' Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,

Was hewn by demon's hands ;
But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell

Than with Clavers and his band.'

He heard the deep-mouthed bloodhound bark,

He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,

And downward sped his way.

Now faintly down the winding path
Came the cry of the faulting hound,

And the muttered oath of balked wrath
Was lost in hollow sound.

He threw him on the flinted floor,

And held his breath for fear ;
He rose and bitter cursed his foes,

As the sounds died on his ear.

' O, bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,

For Scotland's wandering band ;
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword,

And sweep him from the land !

* Forget hot thou thy people's groans

From dark Dunnotter's tower,
Mixed with the sea-fowl's shrilly moans

And ocean's bursting roar !

' O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride,

Even in his mightiest day,
As bold he strides through conquest's tide,

O, stretch him on the clay !

1 His widow and his little ones,

O, may their tower of trust
Remove its strong foundation stones,

And crush them in the dust ! '

1 Sweet prayers to me,' a voice replied,
* Thrice welcome, guest of mine ! '

And glimmering on the cavern side
A light was seen to shine.

An aged man in amice brown

Stood by the wanderer's side,
By powerful charm a dead man's arm

The torch's light supplied.

From each stiff finger stretched upright

Arose a ghastly flame,
That waved not in the blast of night

Which through the cavern came.

O, deadly blue was that taper's hue

That flamed the cavern o'er,
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue

Of his eyes who the taper bore.

He laid on his head a hand like lead,

As heavy, pale, and cold *—
' Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine,

If thy heart be firm and bold.



' But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear

Thy recreant sinews know,
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear,

Thy nerves the hooded crow.'

The wanderer raised him undismayed :

• My soul, by dangers steeled,
Is stubborn as my Border blade,

Which never knew to yield.

' And if thy power can speed the hour

Of vengeance on my foes,
Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate

To feed the hooded crows.'

The Brownie looked him in the face,

And his color fled with speed —
■ 1 fear me,' quoth he, ' uneath it will be

To match thy word and deed.

' In ancient days when English bands

Sore ravaged Scotland fair,
The sword and shield of Scottish land

Was valiant Halbert Kerr

* A warlock loved the warrior well,

Sir Michael Scott by name,
And he sought for his sake a spell to make,
Should the Southern foemen tame.

1 " Look thou," he said, "from Cessford head

As the July sun sinks low,
And when glimmering white on Cheviot's
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow,
The spell is complete which shall bring to thy
The haughty Saxon foe."

1 For many a year wrought the wizard here

In Cheviot's bosom low,
Till the spell was complete and in July's

Appeared December's snow ;
But Cessford's Halbert never came

The wondrous. cause to know.

* For years before in Bowden aisle

The warrior's bones had lain,
And after short while by female guile
Sir Michael Scott was slain.

' But DM and my brethren in this cell

His mighty charms retain, —
And be thai can audi the powerful spell

Shall nVi broad Scotland reign.'

him through an iron door
And up a Winding stair,
And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze
( )n the sight which opened there.

Through the gloomy night flashed ruddy light,
A thousand torches glow ;

The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky,
O'er stalls in double row.

In every stall of that endless hall

Stood a steed in barding bright ;
At the foot of each steed, all armed save the

Lay stretched a stalwart knight.

In each mailed hand was a naked brand ;

As they lay on the black bull's hide,
Each visage stern did upwards turn

With eyeballs fixed and wide.

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,

By every warrior hung ;
At each pommel there for battle yare

A Jedwood axe was slung.

The casque hung near each cavalier ;

Online LibraryWalter ScottThe poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet → online text (page 57 of 78)