Walter Scott Quotes

Bright was the summer of 1296. The war which had desolated Scotland was then at an end.

If it were not for the war, this war would suit me down to the ground.

France has lost the battle but she has not lost the war.

I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.

War is sweet to those who have not experienced it.

History has been the history of warfare.

My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

World history is tragic.

Bloody Ground

Generals make plans. Plans go wrong. And soldiers die.

War is about strategic agendas and epic battles that define nations and shape history. War is about courage and heroism, but it is also about pain and suffering and sorrow and tragedy

In the long run all battles are lost, and so are all wars.

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind. Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -A field where a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

And wonder, dread and war have lingered in that land where loss and love in turn have held the upper hand.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

Today, we must acknowledge, that war has not been won.

The War is not over (and the one that is, or the part of it, has been largely lost). But it is of course wrong to fall into such a mood, for Wars are always lost, and War always goes on; and it is no good growing faint.

Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition So clear of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break agonized and clear.

We sit in calm, airy, silent rooms opening upon sunlit and embowered lawns, not a sound except of summer and of husbandry disturbs the peace; but seven million men, any ten thousand of whom could have annihilated the ancient armies, are in ceaseless battle from the Alps to the Ocean.

This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.

War? The one war I'd be happy to join is the war against officers.

The fate of war is to be exalted in the morning, and low enough at night! There is but one step from triumph to ruin.

Certain blood will be given for half certain reasons, as in all wars.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.