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HE DIDN’T CARE.
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BEGGAN SCANSH.
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A gentleman asked a farmer: “What age are you?”
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Vrie dooinney-seyr jeh eirinagh: “Cre’n eash t’ort?”
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“Indeed,” said the farmer, “I don't know for certain. However, I think I am twenty-eight, thirty-eight, or, at the most, forty-eight.”
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“Dy-jarroo,” dooyrt yn eirinagh, “cha s’aym son shickyrys. Ga, ta mee smooinaghtyn dy vel mee hoght bleeaney as feed, hoght bleeaney jeig as feed, ny, ec y chooid s’moo, hoght bleeaney as daa-eed.”
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“Is it possible you have no more exact knowledge of your age?”
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“Vod eh ve nagh vel fys ny-s’kiartey ayd er dt’ eash?” dooyrt yn dooinney-seyr.
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“Indeed,” said the farmer, “I keep an account of what money is coming in to me, and of what money is going out from me, and of my cattle, but, as for my age, I keep no account of it, since I am certain I can’t lose it and that no one would be able to steal it from me.”
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“Dy-jarroo,” dooyrt yn eirinagh, “ta mee freaylley coontey er yn argid ta cheet stiagh hym, as er yn argid ta goll voym, as er m’ollagh, agh, er-son yn eash aym, cha nel mee freaylley coontey erbee urree, son ta slane shickyrys aym nagh voddym coayl ee as nagh voddagh peagh erbee ee y gheid voym.”
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