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Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!

Walter Scott

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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
Biographer
Historian
Judge
Lawyer
Linguist
Literary Critic
Musicologist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Edinburgh
Scotland
Walter Skott
Jedediah Cleishbotham
Laurence Templeton
Somnambulus
Malachi Malagrowther
Sir Walter Scott
Bart.
Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
Great Magician
The Great Unknown
Triumph
War
Hail
Advances
Chief
Chiefs

More quotes by Walter Scott

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Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer's queen.
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War is the only game in which both sides lose.
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Spur not an unbroken horse put not your plowshare too deep into new land.
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He hath a share of man's intelligence, but no share of man's falsehood.
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My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.
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Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colors to the mast!
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A sinful heart makes feeble hand.
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A sound head, an honest heart, and an humble spirit are the three best guides through time and to eternity.
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Blud's thicker than water.
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Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.
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Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combin'd with vanity and shame Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all Bounded within the cloister wall.
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Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hand the reins, Pity and woe! for such a mind Is soft contemplative, and kind.
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God forgive me for having thought it possible that a schoolmaster could be out and out a rational being.
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Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, morn of toil, nor night of waking.
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To be ambitious of true honor, of the true glory and perfection of our natures, is the very principle and incentive of virtue.
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A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
Walter Scott
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Time rolls his ceaseless course.
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Here is neither want of appetite nor mouths, Pray heaven we be not scant of meat or mirth.
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Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.
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Lightly from fair to fair he flew, And loved to plead, lament, and sue Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain, For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
Walter Scott