Landscape-historical Illustrations of Scotland, and the Waverley Novels, Volume 1

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Page 6 - How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! Her white wings flying — never from her foes — She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Page 45 - WALY waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon...
Page 6 - The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters around a sinking empire, and falling monarch.
Page 6 - Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev"n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they...
Page 102 - How melts my beating heart, as I behold Each lovely nymph, our island's boast and pride, Push on the generous steed, that sweeps along O'er rough, o'er smooth, nor heeds the steepy hill, Nor falters in the extended vale below ! The Chase.
Page 60 - ... stone, stood glimmering in the moonlight, like the sheeted spectre of some huge giant. A wilder or more disconsolate dwelling it was perhaps difficult to conceive. The sombrous and heavy sound of the billows, successively dashing against the rocky beach at a profound distance beneath, was to the ear what the landscape was to the eye — a symbol of unvaried and monotonous melancholy, not unmingled with horror.
Page 2 - Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time ; And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Page 6 - I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; — Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,- And now am I 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.
Page 6 - 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...

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