Lady Seton

O wavering man! Would ye give up your country’s precious trust? By Bruce’s royal blood that warms your veins, I conjure you to pause. Think not the tyrant Will keep his perjured word, though ye surrender. Ah! no; and these poor minions all too late Will see their temples spoil’d,—their infants slain— Chopp’d from their mothers’ breasts, virgins deflower’d, And hoary headed men, and sickly wretches, Piled dying on the streets; war’s red arm bared Till Tweed run blood; the burghers crucified By the accursed Jews let loose to plunder; And would ye ope your adamantine gates To such a horrid scene?