Sir Walter Scott's poetry/biography...Lochinvar, Border Ballad and others
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Sir Walter Scott was born on August 15, 1771 in Edinburgh. An early illness left him lame in the right leg, but he grew up to be a man of over six feet tall with great physical endurance. Scott was greatly interested in the Border tales and ballads of Scotland devoting alot of time to exploration of the Border country.
He was apprenticed in his father’s law office(1786) and was admitted to the bar in 1792. In 1799 he was made sheriff-deputy of Selkirkshire. In 1797 he married Margaret Charlotte Charpenter. They had five children.
Scott's first major work, 'Minstrelsy Of The Scottish Border', was written in 1803. He rose to fame with the publication of 'The Lay Of The Last Minstrel' (1805), which was about an old border country legend. It was a huge success and made him the most popular author of the day.
'Rob Roy' (1817), a portrait of one of Scotland's greatest heroes, sold out its edition of 10 000 copies in two weeks. It was one of a series of nine novels called “Waverley Novels”—romances of Scottish life that reveal Scott’s great storytelling gift and his talent for vivid characterization.
Ivanhoe (1819), set in the reign of Richard I, is perhaps the best known of Scott's novels. It was one of series of ten novels that he wrote in a style of historical reconstruction. 'Life Of Napoleon' was published in 9 volumes in 1827.
In 1820 Scott was made a baronet. In 1825 Scott experienced financial difficulties when a publishing business he had assumed responsiblity for failed during the depression of that year in England. Refusing to go through bankruptcy, Scott assigned to a trust his property and income in excess of his official salary and set out to pay his debt. Even after his death, the remainder of his debt was paid from the earnings of his books.
His wife, Lady Scott, died in 1826 and he had a stroke in 1830. He died on September 21, 1832. Sir Walter Scott was buried beside his ancestors in Dryburgh Abbey.
Scott’s narrative poems, such as 'Lochinvar', are considered to have been written with great feeling and technique. Some critics say his novel's fictional heroes now seem wooden and his plots mechanical.
None deny that he excelled in recreating the spirit of great historical events and in painting realistic pictures of Scottish life.
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Bagpipe Music/Songs
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Sir Walter Scott' poetry***
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Border Ballad
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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.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order;
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
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MacGregor's Gathering
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The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c.
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, &c.
But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage, &c.
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.
While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach,
Come then, come then, come then, &c.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
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Lochinvar
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O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; --
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
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Answer
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Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
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Coronach
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He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
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here is a link to.....Edgar Allen Poe's poetry
to...The Charge Of The Light Brigade
and...Tommy...Thin red line of 'eroes...Kipling
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