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Arrane mychione eirinee santoylagh ta cur feer veg dy faill da ny labbreeyn ayns yn ouyr:
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A song about voracious farmers who give very poor wages to the labourers in the autumn:
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Ta’n imbagh fouyr er jeet dy jeean,
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The harvest season has come suddenly
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As ta ny magheryn geayney creen,
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And the green fields are ripe,
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Ny labbreeyn ta goit ayns fouyr,
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The labourers, taken on in autumn
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Choud’s ta ny berçhee çhaglym troar.
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Whilst the rich are gathering in produce.
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Ny heirinnee dy gastey shooyl,
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The farmers walk briskly,
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Freayll arrey harroo lesh dagh sooill,
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Keeping watch over them, all eyes,
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Ny-yeih, s’beg faill t’ad dy chur da.
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Yet, how little pay they are giving for it.
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Nagh vel goo Yee er shoh gimraa.
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Hasn’t the Word of God mentioned about this?
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Feer veg ta’d cur da’n labbree boght,
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Very little they give to the poor labourer,
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Son e hooilleil as labboragh,
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For his toil and labour,
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Son kiangley arroo ayns yn ouyr,
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For binding corn in the autumn,
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Ny-yeih t’ad geam dy vel eh rouyr.
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Yet, they shout out that it is too much.
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Kiarail son berçhys cha vel fea,
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Caring for wealth, there is no rest.
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Ec lheid yn hooinney ayns y vea,
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For such a man in life,
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Yn eill ta shymley lesh imnea.
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The flesh that withers with worry,
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Shen ta mac Syrac shickyr gra.
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That is what the son of Syrac surely says.
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Ta’n berçhagh goaill er laue tooilleil,
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The richman takes on a working hand.
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Ta ayns e verçhys cur treishteil,
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Who trusts in his wealth,
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Cha vod eh goaill lane fea ny shee,
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He cannot take much rest or peace,
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Raad ta e hashtey ta e chree.
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His heart is where his treasure is.
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Agh bee nyn mea dy leah ec kione,
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But our lives will soon be at an end.
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Ersooyl myr Adam as e chloan ,
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Gone, like Adam and his children,
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Shegin da faigail dy chooilley nhee,
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Everything must be left,
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Son dy ve briwnysit eck Jee.
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To be judged by God.
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T’er ghra dy bee Eh feanish geyre,
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Who has said that he will be a severe witness,
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Noi yn sayntoilagh as molteyr,
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Against the covetous person and deciever,
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Ta chonney labbree ayns y aail,
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Who pressures a labourer in his pay;
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Cha vod eh veih jymmoose scapail.
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He cannot escape from fury.
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Agh ta yn saynt trooid ooilley roie,
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But meanness runs through everything,
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Ga dy vel airh whilleen er stroie,
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Although gold has destroyed so many,
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Agh fegooish gerjagh, ayns anguaish,
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But without comfort, in anguish,
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Paardee ad rish ec oor nyn maaish.
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They will part with it at the hour of their death.
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Nyn ghree va soit er cosney airh,
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Their hearts that were set on earning gold,
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As jannoo reddyn nagh row cair,
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And doing things that were not just,
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Gyn smooinaght er nyn jerrey treih,
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Without thinking about their miserable ends,
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As yn jymmoose veagh çheet nyn yeih.
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And the wrath that would be coming after them.
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Farquhar
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Farquhar
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