Sir Walter Scott, 1st Baronet, FRSE (1771 – 1832) was a Scottish historical novelist, playwright, and poet, popular throughout much of the world in the 19th century.

 

Scott was the first English-language author to have a truly international career in his lifetime, with many contemporary readers in Europe, Australia, and North America. His novels and poetry are still read, and many of his works remain classics of both English-language literature and of Scottish literature. Famous titles include Ivanhoe, Rob Roy, The Lady of the Lake, Waverley, The Heart of Midlothian and The Bride of Lammermoor.

 

 

Lochinvar

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 unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped 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 entered 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 wooed 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 kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked 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 the young Lochinvar.

 

So stately his form and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard 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 whispered, 'Twere better by far,

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, brush, 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 ?

 

 

Oliver Goldsmith (1730 – 1774) was an Anglo-Irish novelist, playwright and poet, who is best known for his novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), his pastoral poem The Deserted Village (1770), and his plays The Good-Natur'd Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (1771, first performed in 1773). He also wrote An History of the Earth and Animated Nature. He is thought to have written the classic children's tale The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, the source of the phrase "goody two-shoes".

 

Sweet Auburn - extract from 'The Deserted Village'

 

SWEET Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed,

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, where every sport could please,

How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene !

How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age, and whispering lovers made !

How often have I blest the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village train from labour free

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And slights of art and feats of strength went round;

And still each repeated treasure tried,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

The dancing pair that simply sought renown

By holding out to tire each other down;

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,

While secret laughter tittered round the place;

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove !

These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,

With sweet succession taught even toil to please;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed

These were thy charms - but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen

And desolation saddens all thy green:

One only master grasps the whole domain,

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But choked with sedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest;

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,

And tries their echoes with unvaried cries.

Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,

Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed, can never be supplied.