Is it not our bounden right To uphold with all our might, And with tongue and pen to fight For our native Gaelic?
Guard the language known to Eve, Ere the Serpent did deceive — And the last one we believe, Mellow, matchless Gaelic!
Pity the disloyal clown Who will dwell awhile in Town, And returning wear a frown If he hears the Gaelic.
‘ Tis amusing to behold Little misses ten years old, When they leave the country fold How they lose the Gaelic.
Some gay natives of the soil, Cross “the line” a little while And returning, deem it “style” To deny the Gaelic.
Lads and lassies in their teens Wearing airs of kings and queens — Just a taste of Boston beans Makes them lose their Gaelic!
They return with finer clothes, Speaking “Yankee” through their nose! That's the way the Gaelic goes — Pop! goes the Gaelic.
Tho’ the so-called “tony set” Teach them quickly to forget, They will all be loyal yet To their mother Gaelic.
Then abjure such silly pride Cast the ragged thing aside — Let your mongrel “English” slide Rather than the Gaelic.
What a dire calamity And how lonesome we would be If our honored Seannachie, Failed to charm in Gaelic!
Better far the “mother tongue” — Language in which mother sung Long ago, when we were young — Ever tender Gaelic!
Findlay's ever ready muse, Stricken dumb, would soon refuse People further to enthuse, If he lost his Gaelic!
And Buchanan, how could he Sell his soda or his tea On this side of “Talamh a righ,” If he lost his Gaelic?
Also Merchant Edward Mac Would not sell so much tomac If his stock was found to lack Lusty Lewis Gaelic!
And Pennoyer, what would you At the Gould post office do When you'd hear from not a few “Ca mar u ha u fean a diubh,”
If you lost your Gaelic? Little Donald with the plaid O'er his buirdly shoulder laid, Would go dancing in the shade,
And his glory soon would fade If he lost his Gaelic. From O'Groat' s to lands’ end, too, What would brother Scotsmen do —
All the loyal clansmen who But a single language know, If they lost their Gaelic? What would then become of those
Poems grand, in rhyme or prose, Which in stately measure flows From “Beinn Oran's” spotless snows! “Chaibar Faidth” — the best that grows —
“Fhir a baitha” — how he rows! What, I ask, would happen those If we lost the Gaelic? Then uphold the magic tongue
Which through mystic Eden rung When Creation still was young — Language in which Adam sung To his Eve, Earth's first love song;
When the morning stars were flung Into space, where since they've clung — Ancient, Glorious Gaelic!
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