All—all in fearful unison combine:
“Thine was the hand that struck, the voice that doomed us thine!”
Count we the hoarded gold,
Tell out the augmented store!
Stripped of renown, we yet have wealth behind—
Void is the chest. No more,
Where countless millions rolled,
Aught but thy bills shall future rulers find.
Men of Midlothian! ever shrewd and keen,
These are your wasted goods, your fruitless toil,