Sir Walter Scott

(1771-1832 / Edinburgh / Scotland)

Sir Walter Scott Poems

1. Gathering Song Of Donald The Black 1/3/2003
2. Claud Halcro's Song 4/2/2010
3. Cleveland Lyke-Wake Dirge (Traditional) 4/2/2010
4. Marmion: Canto V. - The Court 4/2/2010
5. Marmion: Introduction To Canto Iii. 4/2/2010
6. Marmion: Introduction To Canto Iv. 4/2/2010
7. Song -- County Guy 4/2/2010
8. St. Swithin's Chair 4/2/2010
9. The Battle Of Sempach 4/2/2010
10. The Noble Moringer 4/2/2010
11. The Reiver's Wedding 4/2/2010
12. The Troubadour 4/2/2010
13. To The Sub-Prior 4/2/2010
14. Why Sit'st Thou By That Ruin'D Hall? 4/2/2010
15. William And Helen 4/2/2010
16. Verses Found In Bothwell's Pocket-Book 4/2/2010
17. The Song Of Harold Harfager 4/2/2010
18. The Resolve 4/2/2010
19. The Lay Of Poor Louise 4/2/2010
20. The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto Ii. 4/2/2010
21. Song Of The Glee-Maiden 4/2/2010
22. Rokeby: Canto Iii. 4/2/2010
23. Soldier, Wake 4/2/2010
24. Marmion: Canto Iii. - The Inn 4/2/2010
25. Marmion: Canto Iv. - The Camp 4/2/2010
26. As Lords Their Labourers' Hire Delay 4/2/2010
27. Bruce And The Abbot 4/2/2010
28. Elspeth's Ballad 4/2/2010
29. Mackrimmon's Lament 4/2/2010
30. The Maid Of Neidpath 1/3/2003
31. Eleu Loro 1/3/2003
32. Patriotism 02 Nelson, Pitt, Fox 1/1/2004
33. Major Bellenden's Song 4/2/2010
34. Frederick And Alice 4/2/2010
35. Marmion: Introduction To Canto Ii. 4/2/2010
36. Rokeby: Canto Ii. 4/2/2010
37. Saint Cloud 4/2/2010
38. Rokeby: Canto Iv. 4/2/2010
39. The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto Iii. 4/2/2010
40. The Lord Of The Isles: Canto I. 4/2/2010
Best Poem of 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 ...

Read the full of My Native Land

Rosabelle

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.

[Hata Bildir]