Walter Scott Quotes
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O, Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
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My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.
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Still are the thoughts to memory dear.
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O! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!
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Many miles away there's a shadow on the door of a cottage on the Shore of a dark Scottish lake.
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It's no fish ye're buying, it's men's lives.
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Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.
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To all, to each, a fair good-night, and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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A foot more light, a step more true,Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew.
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The stag at eve had drunk his fill,Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,And deep his midnight lair had madeIn lone Glenartney's hazel shade.
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Look back, and smile on perils past.
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That day of wrath, that dreadful day,When heaven and earth shall pass away,What power shall be the sinner's stay?How shall he meet that dreadful day?
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Widowed wife and wedded maid.
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Fat, fair, and forty.
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Heap on more wood!-the wind is chill;But let it whistle as it will,We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
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Too much rest is rust.
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The race of mankind would perish did they cease to aid each other. We cannot exist without mutual help. All therefore that need aid have a right to ask it from their fellow-men; and no one who has the power of granting can refuse it without guilt.
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Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!To all the sensual world proclaim,One crowded hour of glorious lifeIs worth an age without a name.
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Revenge is the sweetest morsel to the mouth, that ever was cooked in hell.
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Rouse the lion from his lair.
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Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above: For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
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Stood for his country’s glory fast,And nail’d her colours to the mast!
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Scared out of his seven senses.
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With head upraised, and look intent,And eye and ear attentive bent,And locks flung back, and lips apart,Like monument of Grecian art,In listening mood, she seemed to stand,The guardian Naiad of the strand.