Poems by Walter Scott

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh

An hour with thee! When earliest day

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Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

As lords their labourers' hire delay,

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Clavers who spoke.

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,

The Abbot on the threshold stood,

Addressed to the Right Hon. Lady Anne Hamilton.

The glowing censers, and their rich perfume;

Farewell to Northmaven,

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Farewell! Farewell! the voice you hear,

He is gone on the mountain,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun upon the lake is low,

Young men will love thee more fair and more fast;

Viewless essence, thin and bare,

Chorus

Where shall the lover rest

The herring loves the merry moon-light,

Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me,

There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,

Tho' right be aft put down by strength,

Frederick leaves the land of France,

Dust unto dust,

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie!"

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,

Bring the bowl which you boast,

The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,

It was an English ladye bright,

It was an English ladye bright,

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

To an Oak Tree, In the Churchyard of --, In the Highlands of Scotland, Said to Mark the Grave of Captain Wogan, Killed in 1649.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

Look not thou on beauty's charming;

O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,

MacLeod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,

And what though winter will pinch severe

When the heathen trumpet's clang

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Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;

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November's sky is chill and drear,

The scenes are desert now, and bare,

Like April morning clouds, that pass,

An ancient minstrel sagely said,

When dark December glooms the day,

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

To mute and to material things

Hear what Highland Nora said,

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun

So goodbye, Mrs. Brown,

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Breathes there the man with soul so dead,

To mute and to material things

Pibroch of Donuil,

Proud Maisie is in the wood,

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,

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It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

Soft spread the southern sumer night

Whet the bright steel,

Soldier, wake, the day is peeping,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

Yes, thou mayst sigh,

Farewell, merry maidens, to song, and to laugh,

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere yon boune ye to rest,

The Forest of Glenmore is drear,

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'Twas when among our linden-trees

Knight And Wamba

Introduction.

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Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,

The baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

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The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,

The Combat.

The Chase.

The Prophecy.

The Island.

The Guard-room.

The Gathering.

Introduction.

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Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day

Introduction.

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Introduction

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O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,

O, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

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November's hail-cloud drifts away,

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,

"O, open the door, some pity to show,

O will ye hear a mirthful bourd?

In Imitation of An Old English Poem

Once again, but how chang'd since my wand'rings began

CANTO I.XIX.

A weary lot is thine, fair maid,

The sun is rising dimly red,

Stern eagle of the far north-west,

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

Glowing with love, on fire for fame

Woman's faith, and woman's trust

The violet in her greenwood bower,

Introduction.

The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn,

KNIGHT AND WAMBA.

Part First

Take these flowers which, purple waving,

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride,

Twist ye, twine ye! even so,

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Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me,

Late, when the Autumn evening fell

Where shall the lover rest

"Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall,

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