  It is gone from the hill and the glen— The strong speech of our sires; It is sunk in the mire and the fen Of our nameless desires: We have bartered the speech of the Gael For a tongue that would pay, And we stand with the lips of us pale And all bloodless to-day; We have bartered the birthright of men That our sons should be liars. It is gone from the hill and the glen, The strong speech of our sires. Like the flicker of gold on the whin That the Spring breath unites, It is deep in our hearts, and shall win Into flame where it smites: With the stream in the glen, With the hill and the heath and the weans They shall think it again; It shall surge to their lips and shall win The high road to our rights— Like the flicker of gold on the whin That the sun-burst unites. |
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