Yet, Yet, Biscayans! We Must Meet Our Foes With Firmer Soul, Yet Labour To Regain Our Ancient Freedom; Else 'Twere Worse Than Vain To Gather Round The Bier These Festal Shows. A Garland Fashioned Of The Pure White Rose Becomes Not One Whose Father Is A Slave: Oh, Bear The Infant Covered To His Grave! These Venerable Mountains Now Enclose A People Sunk In Apathy And Fear. If This Endure, Farewell, For Us, All Good! The Awful Light Of Heavenly Innocence Will Fail To Illuminate The Infant'S Bier; And Guilt And Shame, From Which Is No Defense, Descend On All That Issues From Our Blood.