Poems by Sir Walter Scott

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Farewell to the Muse

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

At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,

Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder espied me

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.

Farewell and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking

The language alternate of rapture and woe:

Oh! none but some lover, whose heartstrings are breaking

The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Sir Walter Scott

The Eve of St John

The baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurr'd his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew,

To lift the Scottish spear.

Sir Walter Scott

The Violet

The violet in her greenwood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle,

May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;

I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

Sir Walter Scott

Bonaparte

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.

The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth

Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth.

And for the soul that bade him waste the earth—

The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure,

That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,

And by destruction bids its fame endure,

Sir Walter Scott

March, March, Ettrick and Teviotdale

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.

Sir Walter Scott

Christmas

The glowing censers, and their rich perfume;

The splendid vestments, and the sounding choir;

The gentle sigh of soul-subduing piety;

The alms which open-hearted charity

Bestows, with kindly glance; and those

Which e'en stern avarice.

Though with unwilling hand,

Seems forced to tender; an offering sweet

Sir Walter Scott

The Song of the Tempest

Stern eagle of the far north-west,

Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thunderbolt,

Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to madness,

Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scatterer of navies,

Amidst the scream of thy rage,

Amidst the scream be loud as the cry of a perishing nation,

Though the rushing of thy wings be like the roar of ten thousand waves,

Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste,

Sir Walter Scott

Glenfinlas; or, Lord Ronald's Coronach

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

The pride of Albin's line is o'er,

And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!" -

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,

The chief that never fear'd a foe,

How matchless was thy broad claymore,

How deadly thine unerring bow!

Sir Walter Scott

Hunting Song

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;

All the jolly chase is here

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear,

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily mingle they

Waken, lords and ladies gay.

Sir Walter Scott

Ancient Gaelic Melody

Birds of omen dark and foul,

Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,

Leave the sick man to his dream -

All night long he heard you scream.

Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,

Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,

There to wink and mop, for, hark!

Sir Walter Scott

The Vision of Don Roderick

Introduction.

Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire

May rise distinguished o'er the din of war;

Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre

Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star?

Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,

Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's range;

Sir Walter Scott

Love

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;

In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

Sir Walter Scott