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:
It is there with the blood in our veins,
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.