Rob Roy Quotes

Fear robs you of your freedom to make the right choice in life that can bridge the gap between where you are and where you want to be. On the other side of fear, lies freedom. If you want to grow, you need to be brave and take risks. If you're not uncomfortable, you're not growing.

Wounds sustained for the sake of conscience carry their own balsam with the blow.

I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least, they never know each other after they are sold.

In the wide pile, by others heeded not, Hers was one sacred solitary spot, Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves contain For moral hunger food, and cures for moral pain.

No word of commiseration can make a burden feel one feather's weight lighter to the slave who must carry it.

Trade has all the fascination of gambling without its moral guilt.

Honour is what no man can give you, and none can take away. Honour is a man's gift to himself.

How nearly can what we most despise and hate, approach in outward manner to that which we most venerate!

Honour is a homicide and a bloodspiller, that gangs about making frays in the street; but Credit is a decent honest man, that sits at hame and makes the pat play.

I’m sprighted with a fool — Sprighted and anger’d worse.

mercy to a criminal may be gross injustice to the community.

Me, on whom, in case of failure — which Heaven forefend! —

I should be rather like the wild hawk, who, barred the free exercise of his soar through heaven, will dash himself to pieces against the bars of his cage.

Yet, with a weakness of mind not uncommon to great criminals, he shrank from the thoughts of his own baseness and cruelty, and endeavored to banish the feeling of dishonor from his mind, by devolving the immediate execution of his villainy upon his subordinate agents.

Scots wear short patience and long daggers.

Alas! how many ways does woman’s affection find to work out her own misery!

I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away; I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay. MALLET.

Everything is possible for him who possesses courage and activity….and to the timid and hesitating everything is impossible, because it seems so.

Sibylla, daughter of Henry I of England, and consort of Alexander the First of Scotland. This

and that which is done of goodwill must, to my thinking, be accepted favourably. Had it been otherwise, methinks they had ere now been enlightened to do better.

There goes a true-bred Campbell," said Montrose, as the envoy departed, "for they are ever fair and false.

those who have experienced your hospitality at night, have little occasion for breakfast in the morning.—

It is by giving fair names to foul actions that those who would start at real vice are led to practise its lessons, under the disguise of virtue.

he is not fit to visit strange countries, who cannot rule his tongue before his own countrymen,

There are few more melancholy sensations than those with which we regard scenes of past pleasure when altered and deserted.

But there was in these eyes an expression of art and design, and, on provocation, a ferocity tempered by caution,

I will never sell my liberty for gold.

to be innocent of ill is no security ;

and that which is done of goodwill must, to my thinking, be accepted favourably. Had

Clan Quhele, at

unfortunate and ill-advised James II. But

But it is wonderful what mischief may be done by only two words

Such an institution could only prevail at a time when ordinary means of justice were excluded by the hand of power, and when, in order to bring the guilty to punishment, it required all the influence and authority of such a confederacy. In no other country than one exposed to every species of feudal tyranny, and deprived of every ordinary mode of obtaining justice or redress, could such a system have taken root and flourished.

That which is neither ill nor well. That which belongs not to Heaven nor to hell, A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, 'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream; A form that men spy With the half-shut eye. In the beams of the setting sun, am I.

But there stands the sword of my ancestor Sir Richard Vernon, slain at Shrewsbury, and sorely slandered by a sad fellow called Will Shakspeare, whose Lancastrian partialities, and a certain knack at embodying them, has turned history upside down, or rather inside out.

Look at the testimony of literature. In the days of chivalry our sympathies go with the Knight-errant, who redresses wrongs; with the King, whose courage and wisdom deliver his people from their enemies. But when Kingship became tyranny, and feudalism oppression, we took our heroes from the rebels. Robin Hood, Hereward the Wake, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Rob Roy; it was always the Under Dog that appealed to the artist.

I want to speak with you,” she said, “and I have placed honest Thornie betwixt Rashleigh and you on purpose. He will be like— Feather-bed ‘twixt castle wall And heavy brunt of cannon ball, while I, your earliest acquaintance in this intellectual family, ask of you how you like us all?

You remind me at this moment,” said the young lady, resuming her lively and indifferent manner, “of the fairy tale, where the man finds all the money which he had carried to market suddenly changed into pieces of slate. I have cried down and ruined your whole stock of complimentary discourse by one unlucky observation.

Does the sense of being pleased and amused blunt our faculties of perception and discrimination of character, that I can only compare it to the taste of certain fruits, at once luscious and poignant, which renders our palate totally unfit for relishing or distinguishing the viands which are subsequently subjected to its criticism.

I did not myself set a high estimation on wealth, and had the affectation of most young men of lively imagination, who suppose that they can better dispense with the possession of money, than resign their time and faculties to the labour necessary to acquire it.

Both parties continued as violent as if they could have pleaded the distinct commands of Heaven to justify their intolerance,

It was a reign of minority, when the strongest had the best right, and when acts of usurpation were frequent amongst those who had much power and little conscience.

cantrip to ken wha suld wed me: and the monk said there

Loch Tay; and

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.

Besides, when a man of talent shows himself an able and useful partisan, his party will continue to protect and accredit him, in spite of conduct the most contradictory to their own principles.

Tall, stout, and comely, all and each of the five eldest seemed to want alike the Promethean fire of intellect, and the exterior grace and manner which, in the polished world, sometimes supply mental deficiency.

The name of Robin Hood, if duly conjured with, should raise a spirit as soon as that of Rob Roy; and the patriots of England deserve no less their renown in our modern circles, than the Bruces and Wallaces of Caledonia.

If I could order any drink I wanted now, it would be a Sweet Rob Roy on the Rocks, a Manhattan made with Scotch. That was another drink a woman introduced me to, and it made me laugh instead of cry, and fall in love with the woman who said to try one. That was in Manila, after the excrement hit the air-conditioning in Saigon. She was Harriet Gummer, the war correspondent from Iowa. She had a son by me without telling me. His name? Rob Roy.

It only remained," he said, "that the noble Chiefs assembled, laying aside every lesser consideration, should unite, heart and hand, in the common cause; send the fiery cross through their clans, in order to collect their utmost force, and form their junction with such celerity as to leave the enemy no time, either for preparation, or recovery from the panic which would spread at the first sound of their pibroch.

sufficient for the day was the evil thereof.

May the open hand be filled the fullest.

The honest heart that’s free frae a’ Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba’, Has aye some cause to smile. BURNS.

O rake not up the ashes of our fathers! Implacable resentment was their crime, And grievous has the expiation been.

But all that a king can give to a people is a smile, such as the sun bestows on the snowy peaks of the Grampian mountains, as distant and as ineffectual. Alas,

religious house called Campsie, the ruins of which still occupy a striking situation on the Tay. It

his very benevolence is selfish;

should these tales ever become public, whether you have not given us a page of talk for every single idea which two words might have communicated, while

[The beautiful pass of Leny, near Callander, in Monteith, would, in some respects, answer this description.]

I desire no man's regard, Mr. Rashleigh, on such terms as must sink me in my own.

his avowal of follies and excess seemed uttered rather in the spirit of wounded pride, than in that of contrition.

the wife who could be contented with but one half of her husband’s affections, had never deserved to engage the slightest share of them.

kittle

Traitor’s word never yet hurt honest cause

If hell...has one complexion more hideous than another, it is where villainy is masked by hypocracy

Ye never saw dull weather clear without a shower; and if the world is turned upside down, why, honest men have the better chance to cut bread out of it.

it the best way to silence him upon such subjects, instead

But sorrow mixes her memorials with the purest remembrances of pleasure.

But patriotism, as it is the fairest, so it is often the most suspicious mask of other feelings;

the widows of the slain, to the number of eleven score, in deep mourning, riding upon white palfreys, and each bearing her husband's bloody shirt on a spear, appeared

and few ideas, but attached to Beersheba with a feeling like that which a vegetable entertains to the spot in which it chances to be planted,

Though somewhat deaf upon ordinary occasions, her ear for bad news was as sharp as a kite’s scent for carrion; for Dorothy, otherwise an industrious, faithful, and even affectionate creature, had that strong appetite for collecting and retailing sinister intelligence which is often to be marked in the lower classes. Little accustomed to be listened to, they love the attention which a tragic tale ensures to the bearer, and enjoy, perhaps, the temporary equality to which misfortune reduces those who are ordinarily accounted their superiors. Dorothy

The White Lady replied,— "Do not ask me; On doubts like these thou canst not task me. We only see the passing show Of human passions' ebb and flow; And view the pageant's idle glance As mortals eye the northern dance, When thousand streamers, flashing bright, Career it o'er the brow of night. And gazers mark their changeful gleams, But feel no influence from their beams.

The Chiefs of Glengarry, Keppoch, and Lochiel, whose clans, equal in courage and military fame to any in the Highlands, lay within the neighbourhood of the scene of action, dispatched the fiery cross through their vassals, to summon every one who could bear arms to meet the King's lieutenant, and to join the standards of their respective Chiefs, as they marched towards Inverlochy.

All my life long I have been more melted by the distress under which a strong, proud, and powerful mind is compelled to give way, than by the more easily excited sorrows of softer dispositions.

Let him who will not proffer’d peace receive, Be sated with the plagues which war can give: And well thy hatred of the peace is known, If now thy soul reject the friendship shown. Hoole’s Tasso.

You’ve got to be the Rob Roy of her imaginings. Are you calling her a ‘bonny lass’? The Englishwomen’s hearts go all a-flutter at that.” “What do you know about the hearts of Englishwomen?” “He’s got the right of it,” Rabbie put in. “‘Bonny lass’ is good. ‘Wee bonny lass’–well that’s even better.” “‘Yer wee bonny lassie,” said Callum, taking the improvement one step further. “Throw in lots of ‘och’ and ‘aye’ and ‘dinna fash yerself,’ too.

I am about to recount occurred during the last years of the 14th century, when the Scottish sceptre was swayed by the gentle but feeble hand of John, who, on being called to the throne, assumed the title of Robert the Third.

The seductive love of narrative, when we ourselves are the heroes of the events which we tell, often disregards the attention due to the time and patience of the audience, and the best and wisest have yielded to its fascination.

The features of Rashleigh were such, as, having looked upon, we in vain wish to banish from our memory, to which they recur as objects of painful curiosity, although we dwell upon them with a feeling of dislike, and even of disgust.

Of the rival league of Clan Quhele we have a still less distinct account, for reasons which will appear in the sequel. Some authors have identified them with the numerous and powerful sept of MacKay. If this is done on good authority, which is to be doubted, the MacKays must have shifted their settlements greatly since the reign of Robert III, since they are now to be found (as a clan) in the extreme northern parts of Scotland, in the counties of Ross and Sutherland. We

A tale of manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting from their novelty.

I had just time to give a glance at these matters, when about twelve blue-coated servants burst into the hall with much tumult and talk, each rather employed in directing his comrades than in discharging his own duty. Some brought blocks and billets to the fire, which roared, blazed, and ascended, half in smoke, half in flame, up a huge tunnel, with an opening wide enough to accommodate a stone seat within its ample vault, and which was fronted, by way of chimney-piece, with a huge piece of heavy architecture, where the monsters of heraldry, embodied by the art of some Northumbrian chisel, grinned and ramped in red free-stone, now japanned by the smoke of centuries. Others of these old-fashioned serving-men bore huge smoking dishes, loaded with substantial fare; others brought in cups, flagons, bottles, yea barrels of liquor. All tramped, kicked, plunged, shouldered, and jostled, doing as little service with as much tumult as could well be imagined

This same library is my den — the only corner of the Hall-house where I am safe from my … cousins. They never venture there, I suppose for fear the folios should fall down and crack their skulls; for they will never affect their heads in any other way... — Miss Diana Vernon

He was, besides, the child of a doting grandmother, whose too solicitous attention to him soon taught him a sort of diffidence in himself, with a disposition to overrate his own importance, which is one of the very worst consequences that children deduce from over-indulgence.

We are so apt, in our engrossing egotism, to consider all those accessories which are drawn around us by prosperity, as pertaining and belonging to our own persons, that the discovery of our unimportance, when left to our own proper resources, becomes inexpressibly mortifying.

at that moment experienced the painful internal feeling of that peculiar spedes of shame, which well-constructed minds feel when they see others express a great assumption of importance, with a confidence that they are exciting admiration, when in fact they are only exposing themselves to ridicule.

I do love these ancient ruins — We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history: And, questionless, here, in this open court (Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather), some men lie interr’d, Loved the Church so well, and gave so largely to it, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday; — but all things have their end — Churches and cities, which have diseases like to men, Must have like death which we have. Duchess o/Malfy. The

Ink runs in their veins, immortal ink, the ink of song and story.” It was the voice of Andreus. “Ink can be destroyed,” cried Black, “and men who are made of ink. Name me their names!” They came so swiftly from the skies Andreus couldn’t name them all, streaming out of lore and legend, streaming out of song and story, each phantom flaunting like a flag his own especial glory: Lancelot and Ivanhoe, Athos, Porthos, Cyrano, Roland, Rob Roy, Romeo; Donalbane of Birnam Wood, Robinson Crusoe and Robin Hood; the moody Doones of Lorna Doone, Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone; out of near and ancient tomes, Banquo’s ghost and Sherlock Holmes; Lochinvar, Lothario, Horatius, and Horatio; and there were other figures, too, darker, coming from the blue, Shakespeare’s Shylock, Billy Bones, Quasimodo, Conrad’s Jones, Ichabod and Captain Hook—names enough to fill a book. “These wearers of the O, methinks, are indestructible,” wailed Littlejack. “Books can be burned,” croaked Black. “They have a way of rising out of ashes,” said Andreus.

Arthur could not but be sensible, that not long since all this would have made him perfectly happy; but the last months of bis existence had developed his understanding and passions. He was now initiated in the actual business of human life, and looked on its amusements with an air of something like contempt; so that among the young and gay noblesse, who composed this merry court, he acquired the title of the youthful philosopher, which was not bestowed upon him, it may be opposed, as inferring anything of peculiar compliment.

My kin would sooner have a badger in their house than a Campbell." Alan saw his mother open hermouth and shook his head to silence her. He not only knew Shelby could hold her own but wanted to see her do it. "Most MacGregors were comfortable enough with badgers in the parlor." "Barbarians!" Daniel sucked in his breath. "The Campbells were barbarians, each and every one of them." Shelby tilted her head as if to study him from a new angle. "The MacGregors have a reputation for being sore losers." Instantly Daniel's face went nearly as red as his hair. "Losers? Hah! There's never been a Campbell born who could stand up to a MacGregor in a fair fight. Backstabbers." "We'll have Rob Roy's biography again in a minute," Shelby heard Caine mutter. "You don't have a drink, Dad," he said, hoping to distract him. "Shelby?" "Yes." She shifted her gaze to him, noting he was doing his best to maintain sobriety. "Scotch," she told him, with a quick irrepressible wink. "Straight up.If the MacGregors had been wiser," she continued without missing a beat, "perhaps they wouldn't have lost their land and their kilts and the name.Kings," she went on mildly as Daniel began to huff and puff, "have a habit of getting testy when someone's trying to overthrow them." "Kings!" Daniel exploded. "An English king, by God! No true Scotsman needed an English king to tell him how to live on his land." Shelby's lips curved as Caine handed her a glass. "That's a truth I can drink to." "Hah!" Daniel lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow before he thumped it onto the table at his side. Cocking a brow,Shelby eyed the Scotch in her glass,then proceeded to follow Daniel's example. For a moment,he frowned at the empty glass beside his. Slowly,with the room deadly silent,he shifted his gaze back to Shelby.His eyes were fierce, hers insolent. Heaving himself out of his chair, he towered over here, a great bear of a man with fiery hair.She put both hands on her hips, a willow-slim woman with curls equally dramtic. Alan wished fleetingly he could paint. Daniel's laugh, when he threw back his head and let it loose,was rich and loud and long. "Aye,by God,here's a lass!" Shelby found herself swept off her feet in a crushing hug that held welcome.

...the prose tradition had died two centuries before and the recreation of a full canon of all-purpose Scots was beyond even Scott's skill, nor did he attempt it, except, perhaps in the magnificent Wandering Willie's Tale. He took the only course open to him, of writing his narrative in English and using Scots only for those who, given their social class, would still be speaking it: daft Davie Gellatley in Waverley, the gypsies and Dandie Dinmont in Guy Mannering, the Headriggs in Old Mortality, Edie Ochiltree and the fisher-folk of Musselcrag in The Antiquary, Andrew Fairservice in Rob Roy, the Deanses in The Heart of Midlothian, Meg Dods in St. Ronan's Well, and so on. The procedure gave reality to the Scots characters whose ways and ethos it was Scott's main purpose to portray, and the author in his best English, which lumbered along rather badly at times, did little more than lay out the setting for the action and act as impressario for the characters as they played their roles... ...Scott's felicity in conveying character and action through their Scots speech inspired his imitators for the next hundred years - Susan Ferrier, Hogg, Macdonald, Stevenson, Barrie, Crockett, Alexander, George Douglas, and John Buchan. The tradition of narrative in standard English and dialogue in various degrees of dialect has been the usual procedure since.

I seriously wondered, for example, whether Lisa McElhaney had ever been to Leningrad, or Ulster, or North Waghi. Then again, I couldn’t even figure out what she really died of. Her seventeen-year-old body was found in a plastic bag in Columbus, Ohio, in April 1987. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother had tried to get an abortion when pregnant with Lisa, but couldn’t afford it. Lisa was raped as a child, became pregnant and miscarried at age fifteen, was thrown out by her family, became addicted to drugs, and worked in pornography and prostitution to support her habit. Each time she ran afoul of the law and was incarcerated in a home for delinquents, social workers noted on her file that she displayed an eagerness for relationships and was “‘starved for affection.”’ But the system was set up to rehabilitate, not to provide relationships or affection, so Lisa withdrew and “would sit for hours and hours, staring into space.”’ When photographs of her performing sexual acts were discovered by the police, she was subpoenaed to testify in a child-pornography case against Larry Miller, the pornographer. Although Miller was a suspect in her murder, police believed the killer was a client of hers, Rob Roy Baker, a thirty-four-year-old truck driver who had been linked to similar attacks on other prostitutes. When police came to question him, Baker shot himself to death in a house filled with pictures of nude women cut from pornographic magazines. So I would ask myself, did Lisa die of assault? Which assault? The lack of affordable abortion for her mother? The beating from her john? Did she die of the disease called "family" or the disease called "rehabilitation," of poverty or drugs or pornography, of economics or sexual slavery or a broken body? Or a broken spirit? When she stared into space for hours was it because she knew she was in here but had no way of trying to reach anyone in the neighboring cell? Perhaps she died on unknown causes.

The sun shines, and the rain descends, on the just and unjust, and they are placed together in life in circumstances which frequently render intercourse between them indispensable, perhaps that the evil may have an opportunity of being converted by the good, and perhaps, also, that the righteous might, among other trials, be subjected to that of occasional converse with the profane.” “Ye’re a silly callant, Reuben,” answered

The sun shines, and the rain descends, on the just and unjust, and they are placed together in life in circumstances which frequently render intercourse between them indispensable, perhaps that the evil may have an opportunity of being converted by the good, and perhaps, also, that the righteous might, among other trials, be subjected to that

She has her leg ower the harrows now,

gaberlunzie

declension,

virtuous resolution and manly disinterestedness seldom fail to restore tranquillity even where they cannot create happiness.

It has been frequently remarked, that the tidings of important events fly with a celerity almost beyond the power of credibility, and that reports, correct in the general point, though inaccurate in details, precede the certain intelligence, as if carried by the birds of the air. Such rumours anticipate the reality, not unlike to the “shadows of coming events,” which occupy the imagination of the Highland Seer.