| Author |
Quotes |
| Francis Lockier | In all my travels I never met with any one Scotchman but what was a man of sense. I believe everybody of that country that has any, leaves it as fast as they can. |
| Horace Walpole | In short, he and the Scotch have no way of redeeming the credit of their understandings, but by avowing that they have been consummate villains. Stavano bene; per star meglio, stanno qui. |
| John Cleveland | Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom Nor forced him wander, but confine him home. |
| Robert Tannahill | Now the summer's in prime Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming. To own dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. |
| Sydney Smith | That knuckle-end of England--that land of Calvin, oat-cakes, and sulphur. |
| Sydney Smith | It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding. |
| William Edmondstoune Aytoun | Give me but one hour of Scotland, Let me see it ere I die. - William Edmondstoune Aytoun, |
| Charles Churchill | The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride, True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not then in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here? |
| Robert Burns | O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content. |
| Robert Burns | It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true, It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue! |
| Robert Burns | Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's,- If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it, A chield's amang you takin notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. |
| Samuel Johnson | The noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high-road that leads him to England. |
| Sir Walter Scott | O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand! |
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