Heart of Midlothian

Heart of Midlothian

Where maroon and white flush Tynecastle's stone,
A roar erupts, a deep, primordial tone –
Not just the clash of boot on sacred sod,
But generations' pulse, a living god.
The sunset paints Arthur's Seat in gold,
While hopes, both bitter and bold,
Unfurl like banners in the west wind's sigh,
Beneath the same old, unchanging sky.

No palace this, yet honour finds its place
In Gorgie's streets, in time-worn grace:
The scrape of scarves on frosted terrace rail,
The shared, silent breath when chances fail,
The sudden, fierce joy when nets ignite –
A collective flame burns fierce and bright.
More than a badge, more than a name,
It's Edinburgh's stubborn, beating flame.

Through lean years long and glory's fleeting kiss,
Through doubt's long shadow and hard-won bliss,
The spirit endures – undimmed, unbent –
Where every match is a testament
To hearts that refuse to yield or fray,
That sing their truth come what may:
We are the pulse, the core, the core's own art –
The very Heart of Midlothian's heart.