No! not yet, thou high Dunedin, Shalt thou totter to thy fall; Though thy bravest and thy strongest Are not there to man the wall. No, not yet! the ancient spirit Of our fathers hath not gone: Take it to thee as a buckler Better far than steel or stone. O remember those who perished For thy birth-right at the time, When to be a Scot was treason, And to side with Wallace, crime! Have they not a voice among us, Whilst their hallowed dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding From each buried warrior’s bier? Up!—they say—and keep the freedom, Which we won you long ago: Up! and keep our graves unsullied, From the insults of the foe! Up! and if ye cannot save them, Come to us in blood and fire: Midst the crash of falling turrets, Let the last of Scots expire! XIV. Still the bells are tolling fiercely, And the cry comes louder in: Mothers wailing for their children, Sisters for their slaughtered kin. All is terror and disorder, Till the Provost rises up, Calm, as though he had not tasted Of the fell and bitter cup. All so stately from his sorrow, Rose the old undaunted Chief, That you had not deemed, to see him, His was more than common grief. “Rouse ye, Sirs!” he said, “we may not Longer mourn for what is done: If our King be taken from us, We are left to guard his son. We have sworn to keep the city From the foe, whate’er they be, And the oath that we have taken Never shall be broke by me. Death is nearer to us, brethren, Than it seemed to those who died, Fighting yesterday at Flodden By their lord and master’s side. Let us meet it then in patience, Not in terror or in fear; Though our hearts are bleeding yonder, Let our souls be steadfast here. Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting, And we yet have much to do, Up! and haste ye through the city, Stir the burghers stout and true!