Canan nan Gaidheal
Verse 1 Cha b' e sneachda 's an rẹthadh bho thuath, Cha b' e 'n crannadh fuar bho 'n ear, Cha b 'e 'n uisge 's an gailleon bho 'n iar, Ach an galair a bhlean bho 'n deas Blàth, duilleach, stoc, agus freumh Canan mo threubh 's mo shluaidh.	It was not the snow and frost from the north, nor the cold withering from the east, it wasn't the rain or the storms from the west, but the sickness from the south that has faded the bloom, foliage, stock and root of the language of my race and my people.
Séist: Thig thugainn, thig co-rium gu siar Gus an cluinn sinn ann canan nam Féinn, Thig thugainn, thig co-rium gu siar Gus an cluinn sinn ann canan nan Gaidheal.	Chorus Come, come on, come with me westwards until we hear the language of the Fein, Come, come on, come with me westwards until we hear the language of the Gaels.
Verse 2 Far a nuas dhuinn na coinnleirean ̣ir 'S annt' caraibh coinlean geal ceir Lasaibh suas iad an sẹmair bhroin T́gh-'aire seann chanan a' Ghae'l 'S sud o chionn fhad' thuirt a namh Ach fhathast tha bẹ canan a' Ghae'l.	Pass over to us the golden candlesticks and put in them the white waxen candles light them up in rhe mourning room of the wake-house of the Gael's old language That's what the enemy has long been saying but the language of the Gael is alive yet.
Verse 3 'S iomadh gille thug greis air a' chuibhl' 'S an du-oidhch' thog fonn Gàidhlig a chridh 'S iomadh gaisgeach a bhrosnaich 'sa bhlair Gu euchd nuair bu tẹtha bha 'n stŕ O Ghaidheil, o caite 'n deach t' uaill 'Nad fhine 's 'nad chanan 's do thir.?	Many a lad who has spent a while at the wheel in the darkness of night has had his heart lifted by a Gaelic song; and many a hero has spurred on on the battle field to valour where the fight was hottest; O Gael, where has your pride in your race and your language and your country gone?
Verse 4 Uair chite fear-feilidh 'sa ghleann Bu chinnteach gur gàidhlig a chainnt Ach spion iad a fhreumh as an fhonn 'N aite gàidhlig tha canan a Ghoill 'S a Ghaidhealtachd creadhal-nan-sonn 'S tir mhajors is cholonels 'n diugh th' innt'.	Once if a kilted man was seen in the valley it was certain that Gaelic was his language, but they have torn his roots from the ground, in the place of Gaelic is the foreigner's language, and the Gaeltachd, cradle of heroes, today it is a land of majors and colonels.
Verse 5 O chanan ta leath ri mo chridh M' aran m' amhlan is m' anal 's mo smior 'S tu cho aosd ri fraoch-dosradh nam frith Shloinneadh og leat beinn, leitear is sgur Ghaidheil, 'gad easbhuidh, 's 'gad dhith 'S clarsach aon-theud, is cuislean gun fhuil.	O language that's close to my heart, My food, my spice, my breath, and my strength, you are as old as the abundant heather on the hills The hills, slopes, and peaks were named by you when they were young Gael, you're needing and you're wanting, like a stringless harp or a vein without blood.
Verse 6 Ged theich i le beath' as na glinn Ged 's gann an diugh chluinntear i nis mo O Dhuthaich MhicAoidh fada tuath Gu ruig thu Druim-Uachdar nam bo Gigheal, dhi na Eileanan Siar Bi na claimheamh 's na sgiath'n ud dhoirn.	Although it has escaped with its life fom the valley, although it's rare today that it's head any more from Strathnaver [MacKay's country] in the far north right down to Drumouchter where the cattle are nevertheless, for it in the Western Isles the swords and shields are taken in hand there.
Verse 7 Ged nach chluinntear nis mo i 'san dun No 'n talla-nan-cliar is nan c̣irn Ged tha mẹir chloinn'icCreumein gun luths O 'n tric feasgair ciuin dhoirteadh cẹl Gigheadh, anns na Eileanan-siar 'S i fhathast ann ciad chainnt an t-sloigh.	Although it is heard no more in the city or in the festive hall of the laureates, Although the strength has gone from the MacCrimmons' fingers from which often music would be poured out in the evening Nevertheless, in the western Isles, there it is still the first language of the people.
Verse 8 Tha na suinn le 'm bu bhinne bha t' fhuaim 'Nad linn thir nam fuarbeannaibh ard Aig an druim anns na uaidhean nan suain Suas air eirigh mo thruaigh tha nan àit Eadhon siar ann an duthaich-MhicLeoid Linn og oirt a ghàidhlig rinn tair.	The heroes to whom your sound was sweetest in your time in the land of the cool high bens are on their backs at rest in graves and risen up, Oh woe, in their place, is even in McLeod's country a young generation who despise you, gaelic.