(that misspelt as hat) (all verses are joined up)

Listen to the soft sweet sound that is rising round us,
Like the melodious music of the harp or the crooning of the fairy people:
It is slowly rising up, gathering strength
Gathering energy from the wind;

Wait! It surrounds us with its lilting tune:
What has overcome me? Is this a miracle?
No, my friends, this voice on the breeze
Is the gentle mother tongue that will keep Dàl Riata strong.

The sweet sound of Gaelic wakes from its slumber;
Its strength gathers apace, filling our hearts;
It spreads through the clouds, our pain now forgotten,
The warmth of the sun bringing once again.

The beautiful language is heard once more,
Sweeter than wealth, or the finest of wine,
St Patrick's blessed language is heard in the meadow,
In the valley, glens and plains, keeping hope alive.


Listen to your mother's voice, so joyful and loving,
As she tenderly inquires of her children:
"Do you hear me, my children, do you have pity?
My torment is great, am I to be abandoned?

Will you leave me to die on the green land of the Gael?
Or will you defend an applaud me in the face of opposition?"
The response is powerful: Do not ever worry mother!
Is the gentle mother tongue that will keep Dàl Riata strong.

Young and the wise have awakened anew,
There ended the night, the fog is dispelled;
People's hearts have renewed in spirit-
No more despondent, under the cloud or in sorrow;

The Gael is alive, filled with hope and willingness -
Let's begin by putting our mother tongue to wag;
The bright light of hope glimmers through the clouds
As sweet as birdsong that opens our day.