Bob, Son of Battle Quotes

“In my life I’ve had three friends. Ma mither – and she went; then ma wife” – he gave a great swallow – “and she’s awa’; and I may say they’re the only two human bein’s as ha’ lived on God’s earth in ma time tha iver tied to bear wi me; and Wullie. A man’s mither – a man’s wife – a man’s dog! It’s aften a’ he has in this warld; and the more he prizes them the more like they are to be took from him.” The little earnest voice shook, and the dim yes puckered and filled.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“An old man – utterly alone – he had staked his all on a throw – and lost.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“A few hours noo, Wullie,” the little man wailed, “and she’ll be gane. We won her, Wuklie, you and I, won her fair: she’s lit the house for us; she’s softened a’ for us – and God kens we needed; she was the ae thing we had to look to and love. And noo they’re takin’ her awa’, and ‘twill be night again. We’ve cherished her, we’ve garnished her, we’ve loved her like oor ain; and noo she maun gang to strangers who know her not.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first chill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man sorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a new-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to his ears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a little whimpering note, crept back to his blanket.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“Wullie, Wullie, to me” he cried.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“So the two went quietly out to save life or lose it, not counted the cost.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle

“And trotting soberly at his heels, with the gravest, saddest eyes you ever saw, a sheep-dog puppy.

A rare dark gray he was, his long coat, dashed here and there with lighter touches, like a stormy sea moonlit. Upon his chest an escutcheon of purest white, and the dome of his head showered, as it were, with a sprinkling of snow. Perfectly compact, utterly lithe, inimitably graceful with his airy-fairy action; a gentleman every inch, you could not help but stare at him – Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle