[from Manx Ballads, 1896]




YN Isabel foalsey, t ‘ee boirey mee hene,
As kyndagh r’ee ta mee gaase fiogit as creen;
Lesh sooree as breagey as ginsh reddyn bwaagh,
As gialdyn nagh jin ee chooilleeney dy bragh.

Ny cheartyn t’ee gearey as jannoo jeem sporte,
As eisht cheartyn elley dy graihagh rhym loayrt,
Myr shoh ta shin dellal, cur shaghey yn traa,
Veih traa lie ayns yn oie dys peesh veg dy laa.

Ny cheartyn goym danys as geddyn veih kiss,
As eisht nee ee gra rhym " tou maarliagh gyn-yss."
Nee shoh shin dys focklyn, as eisht gow mayd cooish;
Veagh tassane dy cowag am reiltagh shin dooisht.

Tammylt ny lurg shen cheet feiyr mygeart thie,
Veagh sliooar ny aglagh ny sleie ny lhie;
Beern oolee as craa, ny hoie heer ec yn aile,
Eer ec sooie ta cloie cooyl yn grainle.

Hig polt er yn dorrys, ny chrank er yn gless,
My chree lheim myr ushag cheusthie ayns my vress,
Goaill aggle dy dorragh yn skeealeyder stiagh,
Dy beagh eh dy aarloo dy woailley myr jaagh.

Nagh treih yn red sooree, as goll magh ‘syn oie,
Fud lane dangeyr moddee, as drogh aigney sleih;
Dy beagh 00 fud jiargan uddagh oo chea,
Ayishoh beign dhyt caggey, ny ye coyrt sheese rea.

Tra vees eh er ny goll er peesh veg dy laa,
Beem ceaut er son focklyn, cha bee veg aym dy gra;
Irree aym dy lhiastey heer ayns y corneil,
As eisht lesh y dorrys beem snauee myr snail.

Goll trooid chiu as thanney, v’eh brishey my chree,
Goll thie myr ragh maarliagh veagh geid fud ny hoie,
Goaill aggle as nearey as chea ass y raad;
Cha booiagh v’eh marroo na ye oc son craid.

Dy smooinaght er sooree, t’eh cur orrym craa,
Dy ye dooisht fud ny hoie as skee fey ny laa;
Nagh baare dou ye laccal ben choud as veem bio,
Ny ye boirit as eiyrit as heaghnit myr shoh.

Agh nish ta mee fakin yn seaghyn va aym,
Ta mee booiagh ginsh eh magh da dagh unnane,
Dy vod ayd goaill tastey as voish sooree chea,
Ayns aght ennagh seasal dy leeideil nyn mea.


THE false Isabel, she bothers me so,
And owing to her I grow withered and sear;
With flirting, deceiving, saying pretty things,
And promising that which she ne’er would fulfil.

Sometimes she is laughing and makes sport of me,
And at other times she speaks fondly to me,
In this way we wanton, just passing the time,
From lying time at night until break of day.t

Sometimes I get bold and steal from her a kiss,
And then she’ll say to me " thou art a sly thief."
This would bring us to words, then we’d have a chat;
A loud whispering would keep us both awake.

A short while after comes a noise ‘bout the house,
T’would suffice to alarm the people in bed;
I’d be guilty and quake, sitting o’er by the fire,
E’en at the soot playing behind the grid-iron.

Comes a knock at the door, or tap on the glass,
My heart, like a bird, leaps up within my breast,
Fearing lest there should come some tale-bearer in,
Who would then be ready to quarrel’~ like smoke.

How wretched is courting, going out at night,
‘Mid great danger of dogs, and ill-will of men;
If thou went ‘mid vermin thou coulds’t run away,
But here thou must struggle, or be laid down flat.

When there shall have arrived a wee bit of day,
For words I would be spent, I’d nought to say;
I would slowly get up o’er in the corner,
And then towards the door I’d creep like a snail.

Going through thick and thin, ‘twas breaking my heart,
Going home like a thief who ‘d steal all the night,
Afraid and ashamed and running from the road;
I ‘d rather be dead than be held up to scorn.

Just to think of courting, it makes me shiver,
To be awake all the night and tired all the day;
‘Twere better to be lacking a wife all my life,
Than be bothered and driv’n and worried like this.

But now that I perceive the trouble I had,
I ‘m willing to tell it out to everyone,
That they may take warning and from courting flee,
In some easier fashion to spend their life time.

* Strike.

1 "A little bit of day."


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