The sky hung low o’er Stirling brig,
Wi' blood upon the heather sprig.
The pipes were still, but hearts beat loud -
A lion stirred beneath its shroud.
Frae forest glen tae castle stane,
The cry was clear, “we’ll bow tae nane!”
A nation bound in iron chain,
Rose wi’ Wallace, fierce an fain.
A common man, yet bold as kings,
He bore nae crown, but freedom brings.
Wi' broadsword drawn an fire-eyed grace,
He faced the foe in battle’s face.
The fields ran red, the winds did mourn,
For sons that widnae see the morn.
But in each death, a cause was born -
A land tae love, a fate scorn.
He didnae seek the laurel’d prize,
But justice for the wee the weemen’s cries.
Nae tyrant’s word, nae English law,
Could crush the dream he aye foresaw.
Though treachery did strike him doon,
An hung him ‘neath a foreign toon -
Still Scotland hears his fearless name,
A martyr set in Freedom’s flame.
So let the wind through Wallace run,
Through stone and soil, through blood and sun.
For in each Scot that dares tae say,
“We’ll aye be free”- lives Wallace’s day.
