Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since ...

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E.T. Scott, 1821
 

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Página 210 - My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go...
Página 168 - Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake ! 'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call ; Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the hall. 'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath ; They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the...
Página 6 - ... those passions common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the...
Página 154 - And just began to bloom his yellow beard. "Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around, Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound : A laurel wreath'd his temples, fresh and green ; And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd between.
Página 38 - ... a flying chariot drawn by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. Mine is a humble English post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his Majesty's highway. Such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for the conveyance of Prince Hussein's tapestry, or Malek the Weaver's flying sentry-box.
Página 4 - Waverley, a Romance from the German,' what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of Rosycrucians and Illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trap-doors, and darklanterns? Or if I had rather chosen to call my work a 'Sentimental Tale...
Página 165 - Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation, were 1 to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.
Página 175 - Mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-battered hills, Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs, Where two hours' hunting fourscore fat deer kills. Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat ; The Highland games and minds are high and great.

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