[From Manx Ballads, 1896]




O'SLEIH my chree, cre nee mayd nish ?
Er-son thombaghey ta shin brisht;
Son lhiaght y cleeau ta goalll ny geay;
Cha rou shin rieau ayns stayd cha treih.

Pootch y thombaghey ta goit son sporran,
As pingyn ruy ta caignit myr arran,
Cha vei yn spolg 'sy chraccan-raun
Cha der yn eairk un soar dy yoan.

Eairkyn vees yeealt dys vees ad brisht,
As boxyn tin screebit as scryst,
Ny-yeih vou shoh cha vow mayd couyr
Veih voayl ny maidjey, skynn, ny sthowyr.

Yn stroin ta gaccan son e cair,
As y bine jeeigyn er e baare;
Sthill geearree son un soar dy yoan
Va cha gerjoilagh gys y chione.

Yn phoib va roee goll gys my ghob,
Te nish fo sooie neear cooyl y hob;
Cre'n viljid as yn eunys v'ayn,
Tra v'an jaagh cassey mysh my chione.

Puff dy jaagh ragh sheer fud-thie,
Cha nuiragh un charchuillag 'sthie
Ny doo-ollee chea er-son nyn mioys,
Goaill dooyrt lesh jaagh dy beagh ad roast.

Mygeayrt my chione ve coodagh rea,
Myr slieau combaasit runt leesh kay;
Va'n phoib myr lilee ayns e vlaa,
As gaih gyn-loght cur shaghey'n traa.

Cre nee mayd nish er-son y duillag,
Agh slanc vondeish goaill jeh'n vuli'ag ?
Dy yannoo shen, as ceau yn traa,
Dy yarrood luss jiarg Virginia.


O DEAR folk, what shall we do now?
Because for tobacco we are broke;
For the scat of the breast takes wind
We ne'er were in such a sad state.

The tobacco pouch is ta'en for a purse,
And the brown pennies are chewed up like brea
There is not a pinch in the sealskin ;
E'en the horn gives no smell of dust.

Horns will be hammered till broken,
And tin boxes be scraped and peeled,
E'en from these things there's no relief
From place of the stick, knife, or staff.*

The nose doth complain for its right,
And the drop shining on its tip;
Still seeking for one smell of dust
'Twas so comforting to the head.

The pipe that once went in my mouth,
Is now 'neath soot behind the hole;
What sweetness and joy there was,
When the smoke curled around my head.

* Smoke puff would go through the house,
*Fly would not stay there with it
The spiders fleeing for their lives,
Fearing that they would be roasted.+

'Bout my head 'twas often 1 hov'ring,
Like a hill surrounded with mist;
The pipe was like a lily in its bloom,
And a faultless toy passing the time.

What shall we do without the leaf,
But take advantage of the barrel ?
just to do that, and pass the time,
To forget Virginia's red weed.

* The meaning here is rather obscure.
+ by the smoke
1 or" regularly."


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Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor
HTML Transcription © F.Coakley , 2001