| English | Manx | |
|---|---|---|
| FIRESIDE STORIES | SKEEALYN CHEEIL-ÇHIOLLEE[1] | |
|
[1] skeealyn çheeil-chiollee] ‘fireside stories’ —
[skeealyn keeil-chiollee] would be expected here in Classical Manx.
| ||
| [Cover Page] | ||
| Books of the House of Thatch | Lioaryn Yn Thie Thooee | |
| Number 1 | Earroo 1 | |
| FIRESIDE STORIES | SKEEALYN CHEEIL-CHIOLLEE | |
| [1] | ||
| FIRESIDE STORIES | SKEEALYN CHEEIL-CHIOLLEE | |
| TRANSLATED BY | ÇHYNDAIT LIORISH | |
| A. S. B. Davies (ART MAC GHAVID) | A. S. B. Davies (ART MAC GHAVID) | |
| Introduction by J. D. Qualtrough | Goan-Foshlee liorish J. D. Qualtrough | |
| Speaker of the House of Keys | Fockleyder ny Kiare as Feed | |
| President of the Manx Language Society | Ard-Reiltagh ny Sheshaght Gailckagh | |
| [3] | ||
| Printed in the Isle of Man | Clouit ayns Ellan Vannin | |
| It is a great pleasure to welcome this little book, and its author—Mr. Arthur S. B. Davies. | She lesh taitnys mooar ta mee g’oltaghey y lioaran shoh as yn ughtar j’ee — Mainstyr Arthur S. B. Davies. | |
| In introducing Mr. Davies to the people of Man, let me say that he is a fellow country-man of that great Welshman, Bishop Pjillips, to whom we are indebted for the earliest writing we possess in the Manx language, namely the Book of Common Prayer, translated into Manx by that good bishop (1625-30). Mr Davies is conversant wth all the Celtic tongues, and he has lived among the peoples who use them daily, from the Islands off the North West Coast of Scotland to the peninsula of Brittany. | Lhig dou cur er enn eh da’n phobble Vanninagh; she Bretnagh dooie eshyn. Ta shin cooinaghtyn dy re Bretnagh myrgeddin eshyn ren hoshiaght yn Ghailck Vanninagh y screeu — yn Aspick Phillips, tra hyndaa eh Lioar ny Padjer ’sy ghlare ghooie ain. Shione da Mr. Davies ooilley ny glaraghyn Celtiagh, as t’eh er vaghey mastey ny cummaltee ta loayrt gagh laa yn ghlare Cheltiagh oc, ayns Ellanyn ny Twoaie Albinagh as ayns y Thalloo Vretonagh t’er y Vooar-heer. | |
| In 1946 Mr. Davies came to visit the Isle of Man, ad he met all the native Manx speakers. On his return he published an intersting article on the Manx language in the “Bulletin of Celtic Studies.” | Haink eh dy chur shilley er Ellan Vannin ’sy vlein 1946, as haink eh ny whail rish gagh Manninagh va loayrt yn Ghailck ec y traa shen, as tra rosh eh dy-valley reesht, screeu eh coontey ny glare ain va currit magh ayns y “Bulletin of Celtic Studies”. | |
| And now he has given us this little volume, which it is my pleasure to introduce — not without hope that it may be the fore-runner of other Manx works from his pen. He has the authentic Celtic style and is well equipped to write in our language. | T’eh nish cur magh yn lioran shoh as foddee dy vel lioran elley ayns laue dy eiyrt er. Ta ny skeealyn scruit dy-mie, as s’leayr dooin dy vel Mnr. Davies lane ynsit as aghtal ayns y ghlare ghooie ain. | |
| There is a peculiar MANX flavour about these tales. As I read them I had little difficulty in picturing our forefathers exchanging yarns of the same character as they sat around the fireside in the days of long ago. | Gyn dooyt, ta blass lajer Manninagh ayns ny “Skeealyn Cheeil-Çhiollee.” Choud’s va mee lhaih ad cha row eh ny red doillee dou dy akin, lesh sooillyn m’aigney ny shenn ayraghyn ainyn g’insh ry-cheilley skeealyn jeh’n vun cheddin, myr v’ad nyn soie rish y chiollagh ayns laghyn foddey er-dy-henney. | |
| Every Manx student must read this book to savour for himself the pleasure Mr. Davies has given us. And all who read it will, I feel sure, express the hope that the time is not far off when the writer will give us some more tales of the same kind. | Lhig da dy-chooilley studeyr Manninah lhaih yn lioran shoh, as eisht jir ad, ta mee smooinaght — “Gur eh mie mooar eu, Vainstyr Davies, son y taitnys ta shiu er chur dooin, as ny lhig da’n traa ve foddey roish my screeuys shiu yn lheid cheddin dy skeealyn elley.” | |
| J. D. Q. | J. D. Qualtrough. | |
| Castletown, | Balley-Chashtal, | |
| January, 1952. | Yn chied vee, 1952. | |
| [5] | [6] | |
| To all those native Manx people that love the old Gaelg, which means, the mother tongue of the Isle of Man. | Gys ooilley ny Manninee dooie shen ta graihagh er y çhenn Ghailck, ta shen dy ghra, çhengey ny mayrey Ellan Vannin. | |
| Foreword | ROIE-RAA | |
| These five true stories are selected from the Welsh in “Straeon y Pentan,” that Daniel Owen wrote long ago. With kind permission of Messers Hughes and Son, Caerdydd (Cardiff), Publishers of the original book, the version is published. | Ta ny queig skeealyn firrinagh shoh reihit veih’n Vretnish ayns “Straeon y Pentan,” screeu Daniel Owen foddey er-dy-henney. Lesh kied kenjal Vainstyryn Hughes as e Vac, Caerdydd, Soilsheyderyn ny bun-lioar, ta’n çhyndaa er ny chur magh. | |
| I am indebted to Mr. John Gell, Port St. Mary, for helping me to prepare the stories for the printers, and to Mr. William (Bill) Radcliffe, Ramsey, for reading the proofs. | Ta mee fo lhiastynys da Mnr. Juan y Geill, Purt le Moirrey, son cooney lhiam dy yannoo aarloo ny skeealyn da ny clouderyn, as da Mnr. Illiam Radcliffe, Rhumsaa, son lhaih ny prowallyn-clou. | |
| A. S. B. D. | A. S. B. D. | |
| Colwyn Bay | Baie Colwyn, | |
| Wales | Bretin. | |
| Spring, 1952. | Yn Arragh, 1952. | |
| [6] | ||
| NAMES OF THE STORIES | ENMYN NY SKEEALYN | |
| JAC’S HAT 9-11 | YN EDD EC JAC 9-11 | |
| WILLIAM THE SHEPHERD. 12-14 | ILLIAM YN BOCHILLEY 12-14 | |
| THOMAS MATHIAS 15-17 | THOMASE MATHIAS 15-17 | |
| THE GHOST OF THE INN 18-22 | SCAAN Y THIE-OAST 18-22 | |
| THE BOY’S DOG 23-26 | MODDEY YN GHUILLEY 23-26 | |
| [7] | [7] | |
| ‘”May Manx Endure” | “Dy Jean y Ghailck Farraghtyn” | |
| [8] | ||
| Jac’s Hat. | Yn Edd ec Jac | |
| “You heard’ve many times that the mind has a great amount of power on the health or ill-health of the body, and true enough that is,” said my uncle Edward. Here for you is a story them, as true as it can be. | “Cheayll oo keayrt ny ghaa dy vel ec yn aigney cooid-vooar dy phooar er slaynt ny er aslaynt y chorp, as s’feer dy-liooar shen,” dooyrt my naim Edard. Er hoh dhyts skeeal eisht, cho firrinagh as oddys ee ve. | |
| After I had grown up into a young man, I came to be very tired of farm work, it was too easy-going a life for me, and I had heard that good pay was to be had in the cotton-mill in Yr Wyddgrug (a town in Wales.) and off I went to there to seek work. | Lurg dooys v’er n’aase seose my ghooinney aeg, haink mee dy ve feer skee jeh obbyr-eiringagh, ve ny vioys ro hoccaragh dooys, as va mee er chlashtyn dy row faill vie ry-gheddyn ayns y wyllin-cadee ayns Yr Wyddgrug (balley ayns Bretin.) as ersooyl lhiam dys shen dy hirrey obbyr. | |
| I got work right away, and I was a sort of assistant with the spinners, and I was very happy with my situation. There was another young man there and he was about the same age as me, a boy who had lost one eye, but, nevertheless, he saw more with his one than other boys would be usually see with two eyes! | Hooar mee obbyr çhelleeragh, as va mee my horçh dy chooneyder lesh ny sneeuderyn as va mee feer vaynrey lesh my stayd. Va dooinney-aeg elley ayns shen as eshyn mysh yn eash cheddin as mish, guilley v’er choayl un hooill, agh, ny-yeih, v'eh fakin ny smoo ass e ’nane na veagh guillyn elley fakin dy-cadjin lesh daa hooill! | |
| He was called William James, and he was a very mischievious boy. He and I came to be friends in a short time. Williams and I would be taking companionship {??} in tricks and joking every day. But it was understood between Williams and I that we had to accept the blame after one another (in turns). That way we were avoiding one castigation! | V’eh enmyssit William James, as she guilley feer vitçhooragh v’eh. Haink eshyn as mish dy ve nyn gaarjyn ayns traa gerrid. Veagh William as mish goaill commeeys ayns cluicyn as spotçheraght gagh laa. Agh ve toiggit eddyr William as mish dy row eh orrin dy ghoaill-rish yn ’oill lurg-y-cheilley. Myr shen va shin shaghney un smaght! | |
| Thomas Burgess was the man who was foreman in the spinning room, and he was one of the cruellest and hateful ones towards the workers that I ever saw. But Burgess really loved joking and had committed provocative tricks against the men he had charge of, and so, he showed plenty of favour to William and I. | She Thomase Burgess yn dooinney va ny ’urriman ’sy çhamyr-snauee, as v’eh ’nane jeh ny fir s’dewiley as s’dwoaiagh rish ny fir-obbree honnick mee rieau. Agh va Burgess feer ghraihagh er spotçheraght as er cur-rish cluicyn brasnee noi ny deiney va er e churrym, as myr shen, yeeagh eh foayr dy-liooar da William as dooys. | |
| I had read somewhere that a man could exhort and make a healthy man believe that he is sick, and a sick man to believe that he is healthy, unless his sickness were too serious. | Va mee er lhaih boayl ennagh dy voddagh fer coyrlaghey as cur er dooinney slayntoil dy chredjal dy vel eh çhing, as er dooinney çhing dy chredjal dy vel eh follan, mannagh beagh y çhingys echey ro hrome. | |
| Once, while were having our dinner, I mentioned this to Thomas Burgess, and he said: it’s easy to test the matter, if you and Wil James would put your heads together (to see) how you’ll do it to one of these ones. If Wil can’t do something, I’ll be amazed, because I think he’s a very skillfull boy. | Keayrt dy row, as shinyn goaill nyn yinnair, ren mee gimraa y chooish shoh rish Thomase Burgess, as dooyrt eshyn: S’aashagh prowal y yannoo er y chooish, my yinnagh uss as Wil James cur nyn ging ry-cheilley [dy ’akin][2] crenaght [9] nee shiu eh er ’nane jeh ny fir shoh. Mannagh yarg Wil jannoo red ennagh, bee yindys mooar orryms, er-yn-oyr er lhiam dy re guilley feer schleioil t'eshyn. | |
|
[2] dy ’akin] ‘to see’ — added here as it, or something similar, is evidently missing from the original.
| ||
| I spoke to Wil about Burgess’ secret, and before the night Wil had prepared a trick! | Loayr mee rish Wil mychione yn tannish ec Burgess, as roish yn oie va cluic er ny yannoo aarloo ec Wil! | |
| There was one of the spinners and his name (was) Jac Jones, a man who was always wearing a top-hat, and he was leaving (used to leave) it on a nail outside the spinning room. Wil thought to (decided to) tie a fine black string, but strong enough, around about the base of the hat, right above the edge, and to draw it in about a quarter-inch, and a quarter-inch is two sizes, you see, in a hat, and then to make Jac Jones believe that his head had swollen. | Va fer jeh ny sneeuderyn as yn ennym echey Jac Jones, ny ghooinney va dy-kinjagh ceau top-hat, as v’eh faagail eh er treiney çheu-mooie jeh’n çhamyr-sneeuee. Va Wil smooinaghtyn dy chiangley streng ghoo cheyl, agh lajer dy-liooar, mygeayrt-y-mysh bun yn edd, dy-jeeragh erskyn yn oirr, as dy hayrn eh stiagh mysh kerroo-oarlagh, as ta kerroo-oarlagh ny ghaa vooadys[3], t’ou toiggal, ayns edd, as eisht dy chur er Jac Jones dy chredjal dy row e chione er n’att. | |
|
[3] kerroo-oarlagh ny ghaa vooadys] ‘two inches is two sizes’ —
[ny] seems to be an error here.
| ||
| The next day, in the morning, as soon as Jac Jones went to his work, Wil tied the string around the hat, and in line with our agreement, I went and I said to Jac, “John Jones, aren’t you too well in health this morning?” and he (said), “Oh, it isn’t anything,” I said, “but I think there’s some swelling in your head.” | ’Sy voghrey laa-ny-vairagh, cho leah as hie Jac Jones gys e obbyr, chiangle Wil yn treng mygeayrt yn edd, as reir nyn goardail, hie mish as dooyrt mee rish Jac, “John Jones, nagh vel shiu ro vie ayns slaynt moghrey jiu?” as eshyn. “Och, cha nel eh veg,” dooyrt mish, “agh ta mee smooinaghtyn dy vel att ennagh ’sy chione eu.” | |
| “Not at all, I am in good health, and indeed, I am grateful for it,” answered Jac. | “Cha nel edyr, ta mish ayns slaynt vie, as dy-jarroo ta mee booisal er e son,” dreggyr Jac. | |
| About seven o’ clock, Wil went to him, and he said: “John Jones, you’re not looking like yourself today, do you have a pain in your head?” | Mysh shiaght er y chlag hie Wil huggey, as dooyrt eh: “John Jones, cha nel shiu jeeaghyn gollriu-hene jiu, vel pian ’sy chione eu?” | |
| “No, indeed not,” said Jac, “but Ned was just now asking the same thing, what made you think such a thing?” | “Cha nel, dy-jarroo,” dooyrt Jac, “agh va Ned dy-jeeragh nish briaght yn red cheddin, c’red hug ort smooinaghtyn y lhied?” | |
| “I don’t know,” said Wil, “but your head looks a little bit funny, as if you had gotten a ‘hit to the side’ (side-swipe? hit sidways?) at it. Let me see the other side. Oh, no, they’re both similar (to eachother), I was only imagining, I think,” and off went Wil to his work. | “Cha ’s ayms,” dooyrt Wil, “agh ta’n kione eu jeeaghyn cooid veg aitt myr dy row shiu er n’gheddyn builley ry-lhiattee echey[4]. Lhig dou fakin y cheu elley. Och, cha nee, t’ad ny-neesht gollrish y cheilley, cha row mish agh sheiltyn, er-lhiam,” as ersooyl lesh Wil gys e obbyr. | |
|
[4] er n’gheddyn builley ry-lhiattee echey] it is not clear what is intended by
[echey].
| ||
| About five minutes before the time of the first meal, Burgess himself went to him and he said, “Here you are, Jac, you were at some scuffle last night! You’ve been drunk again, I know, because your head is like a big round turnip! | Mysh queig minnidyn roish traa yn chied lhongee hie Burgess-hene huggey as dooyrt eh, “Er-hoh uss, Yac, v’ou uss rish streeu ennagh riyr! T’ou er ve scoorit reesht, ta fys [aym], son ta dty chione gollrish napin mooar cruinn! | |
| [10] | ||
| Or else, have you got mumps? It’s going around at the moment.” | Er nonney vel yn gorley-scoarnee ort? Te goll mygeayrt ec y traa t’ayn.” | |
| “I haven’t tasted a small drop (single drop) for a week, and my head is as good as any of your heads,” answered Jac abruptly. | “Cha nel mee er vlashtyn bine beg neayr’s shiaghtin, as ta my chione cho mie as kione erbee euish-hene,” dreggyr Jac dy-doaltattym. | |
| “I hope that you’re telling the truth,” said Burgess, and away he went. | “Ta mee treishteil dy vel oo ginsh yn irriney,” dooyrt Burgess, as ersooyl lesh. | |
| When Jac Jones was going to his meal, and trying to put his hat on his head, he couldn’t manage it at all. He looked (to see) if he had taken some other hat, but he remembered himself that no one was wearing a top-hat except himslef, and as well, his name written by his own hand was in the inside of the hat. He borrowed a cap for going to his meal, and he brought the hat in his hand. | Tra va Jac Jones goll dys e lhongey, as shirrey cur e edd er e chione, cha daink eh lesh edyr. Ren eh jeeaghyn row eh er n’ghoaill edd ennagh elley, agh chooinee eh er-hene nagh row fer erbee ceau top-hat agh eh hene, as myrgeddin, va e ennym scruit liorish e laue-hene ayns çheusthie yn edd. Hooar eh bayrn er eeassaght cour goll dys e lhongey, as hug eh lesh yn edd ’sy laue. | |
| Jac didn’t come back to his work. Burgess visited him at midday, and he found him in bed, suffering with a cruel pain in his head. Burgess said to Jac that he was no doubt sick now, but that there was a treatment to give him an instant cure, and that he himself would bring the treatment to him in the afternoon, after the mill had stopped. | Cha daink Jac er-ash dys e obbyr. Hug Burgess shilley er ec munlaa, as hooar eh ayns y lhiabbee eh, surranse lesh guin g[h]ewil ayns e chione. Dooyrt Burgess rish Jac dy row eh gyn-dooyt çhing nish, agh dy row lheihys ayn dy chur couyr da çhelleeragh, as dy derragh eh-hene lesh yn lheiys shen huggey ’syn astyr erreish da’n wyllin v’er scuirr. | |
| Burgess and I went to visit Jac that night and we brought a small amount of sweet oil in a bottle. Whilst Burgess and Jac’s wife were up in the bedroom putting the oil on poor Jac’s head, I was pulling the sting off the hat, and then, to show how effective the treatment was, Burgess said to the wife to go and bring up up the hat to him, and behold! Now Jac was easily able to put the hat on his head. Truly, with so much oil as there was on his head, the hat slid almost too easily, and how good it was that Jac had big enough ears to prevent the hat from going over his face. But how amazing it was, although the swelling had gone away straight away, the pain didn’t stop so quickly, and Jac Jones was at home for a week before he went back to his work. | Hie Burgess as mish dy chur shilley er Jac yn oie shen as hug shin lhien cooid veg dy ooill villish ayns boteil. Choud as va Burgess as ben Jac heose ’sy çhamyr-cadlee cur yn ooill er kione Jac boght, va mish heese tayrn yn treng jeh’n edd, as eisht, dy yeeaghyn cre cho fondagh as va’n lheihys, dooyrt Burgess rish y ven dy gholl as cur lh’ee seose huggey yn edd, as cur-my-ner! nish haink eh lesh Jac dy chur yn edd dy-aashagh er e chione. Dy-firrinagh, lesh wheesh as va jeh’n ooill er e chione, skyrr yn edd bunnys ro aashagh, as by vie eh[5], dy row ec Jac cleayshyn mooar dy-liooar dy lhiettal yn edd veih goll harrish yn eddin echey. Agh s’ynidyssagh ve, ga dy row yn att er n’gholl ersooyl çhelleeragh, cha scuirr yn pian cho tappee, as va Jac Jones ec y thie rish shiaghtin roish hie eh reesht gys e obbyr. | |
|
[5] by vie eh] evidently ‘how good it was’.
| ||
| He didn’t find out about the trick for three more weeks, and he never forgave us! | Cha dooar eh fys mychione y chrout rish tree shiaghtinyn elley, as cha ren eh rieau leih dooin! | |
| [11] | ||
| William the Shepherd | Illiam yn Bochilley | |
| Do I remember about the tale of William the Shepherd? Yes, indeed, as if it only happened yesterday, said my uncle Edward, and a very strange account it is too. Illiam was one of the most good-looking men you ever saw; he was above six feet in height and stong and stout in (his) body. He was considered also, amongst his neighbours, as one of the bravest and most fearless men you could meet in a year. That was good for William, because due to his career, he had to be travelling the mountains every hour of the night and in every sort of weather. | Vel cooinaghtyn aym er skeeal Illiam yn Bochilley? Ta, dy-jarroo, myr nagh haghyr eh agh yn laa v’ayn jea, dooyrt my naim Edard, as she coontey feer yoarree eh neesht. She ’nane jeh ny deiney s’aaley honnick oo rieau va Illiam; v’eh erskyn shey trieyn ’syn yrjid[6], as lajer as tramylt va’n corp echey. V’eh coontit myrgeddin mastey e naboonyn myr ’nane jeh ny deiney s’dunnal as s’neuagglee oddagh oo çheet ny whail ayns blein. By vie shen da Illiam, son kyndagh rish e cheird, b’egin da ve troailt ny sleityn gagh oor jeh’n oie as ayns gagh sorçh dy emshir | |
|
[6] ’syn yrjid] ‘in the height’, evidently an error for
[er yrjid] ‘in height’.
| ||
| Illiam was a true shepherd indeed, and if there were any misfortune befalling the sheep, the roughness of the weather wouldn’t make him neglect them at all: he put his life in danger many times for an old sheep or a small lamb that was only worth very little. And I think that God is looking lovingly on a man for things such as that. | She bochilley firrinagh dy-jarroo va Illiam, as dy beagh drogh-haghyrt erbee çheet er ny kirree, cha jinnagh garrooid ny h-earish cur er jannoo beggan dy veerioose orroo: hug eh e vioys ayns gaue keayrt ny ghaa er son shenn cheyrrey ny eayn beg nagh row feeu agh feer veg. As er-lhiams dy vel Jee jeeaghyn dy-graihagh er dooinney son lheid ny reddyn shen. | |
| Now, William was going out with a girl in the neighbourhood and about to marry her, and Susan was a very strange lass. I remember her well, and after Illiam had ‘put his mind on her’ (taken a liking to her), no one other man would dare have anything to do with her, being afraid of William, for as I already said, Illiam was an astounding man in strength, although he was, as I knew, completely innocent (naïve), and I never heard that he was ‘for the drink’, or making any use of bad words. There were three miles of travail from the village where Illiam lived to Susan’s house, and the road was going over the mountain, but William would be going two or three times a week to visit Susan, no matter what sort of weather there would be. | Nish, va Illiam sooree inneen ’sy naboonys as er-çhee jannoo poosey ree, as she caillin feer waagh va Susan. Ta cooinaghtyn mie aym urree, as erreish da Illiam v’er choyrt e aigney urree, cha b’loys da fer erbee elley goaill eïe urree, er-aggle roish Illiam, son myr dooyrt mee hannah, va Illiam ny ghooinney yindyssagh ayns niart, ga dy row eh, myr va fys aym, dy-slane oney, as cha geayll mee rieau dy row eh son y jough, ny jannoo ymmyd jeh drogh-ockleyn. Va tree meeilaghyn dy hooilleil veih’n valley-beg-çheerey boayl va Illiam baghey gys thie Susan, as va’n raad goll harrish y clieau, agh veagh Illiam goll ghaa ny tree keayrtyn ’sy çhiaghtin dy chur shilley er Susan, s’cummey cre’n sorçh dy emshir veagh ayn. | |
| One afternoon, there was a mid-week service in the chapel, and any time there would be something in the chapel in the afternoon, after the day’s labour, it would our tradition, sons and farmers’ labourers, to go to the chapel about quarter of an hour before the time of the service, to chat and hear the news. There was fault enough to be found in the tradition, but there was something to be said for it — not often, but at such opportunites, we would have a suitable chance to see each other, because we were living in far-flung places. Now as I said, there was a service in the chapel on Wednesday afternoon, and several of us had gathered together near to the chapel a while before the time. | Fastyr dy row, va shirveish mean-ny-shiaghtin ayns y chabbal, as traa erbee veagh red ennagh ’sy chabbal ’syn astyr, lurg laboraght yn laa, veagh cliaghtey ain, mec as labreeyn da eirinee, dy gholl gys y chabbal mysh kerroo oor roish traa yn çhirveish, dy ghoaill cowag as clashtyn y naight. Va foill dy-liooar er n’gheddyn ’sy chliaghtey, agh va red ennagh ry-loayrt ass e lieh — s’anvennick, agh ec [12] lheid ny caaghyn, veagh caa chooie ain dy akin y cheilley, er-yn-oyr dy row shin beaghey ayns ynnydyn foddey-skeaylt. Nish myr dooyrt mee, va shirveish ’sy chabbal fastyr Jecrean, as va shiartane jin er nyn jaglym cooidjagh faggys da’n chabbal tammylt roish y traa. | |
| It was an icy evening, and there was moonlight, and after we had talked for a while, who did we see coming to us, but William the shepherd! When he came near to us, we all saw that he seemed to be somewhat troubled, and I asked him if anything had happened to the sheep, and he answered — and here for you exactly (are) his own words: | She fastyr rioeeagh ve, as re-hollys ayn, as lurg dooin v’er haggloo rish tammylt, quoi honnick shin çheet hooin veih’n clieau, agh Illiam yn bochilley! Tra haink eh faggys dooin, honnick shin ooilley dy row eh jeeaghyn dy ve cooid-veg seaghnit, as ren mee briaght jeh row red erbee er daghyrt er ny kirree, as dreggyr eshyn — as er hoh dhyt dy-kiart e ghoan-hene: | |
| “Nothing, Edward, but do you know this — I saw something terribly strange as I was coming over the ridge of yonder mountain. You know that I’m not a shy man, but when I was coming down that (mountain)side, I came straight into complete darkness, — I couldn’t see my own hand. | “Cha nel veg, Edard, agh vel fys euish er shoh — honnick mee red quaagh atçhimagh as mish çheet harrish dreeym y clieau shid. Ta fys eu nagh vel mee my ghooinney faitagh, agh tra va mee çheet neose yn lhiattee shid, haink mee çhelleeragh stiagh ayns dorraghys bollagh, — cha dod mee fakin my laue-hene. | |
| I didn’t take fright, and I went through the darkness until I came into the light, then I stood to look behind me, and I saw a black cloud, long and low, as level on its top as a top of a wall or (as) a hedge that had been cut level. | Cha ren mee goaill aggle, as hie mee roym trooid y dorraghys gys haink mee stiagh ayns y toilshey, eisht hass mee dy yeeaghyn my-chooyl, as honnick mee bodjal doo, liauyr, as injil, cho rea er e vullagh as mullagh voalley [sic] ny as[7] cleiagh v’er ny ghiarrey rea. | |
|
[7] as] ‘as’ — superflous here.
| ||
| When I was looking at it, I saw straight away a crowd of people going in procession on the other side of the cloud, only their heads and their shoulders were visible for me, and although they seemed to be close to me, I didn’t recognise any one of them. I saw the people moving forward and the cloud too, and soon it was clear to me that four men at the end of the cloud were carrying a coffin on a bier, and there was one man behind the bier on horseback, and I recognised him straight away — it was Juan Probert mounted on a black horse. I stood watching them, until the cloud and the people went over the river by the way to the town untill I lost sight of them.” | Tra va mee jeeaghyn er, honnick mee er-y-chooyl çhionnal dy lieh goll ayns cosheeaght çheu-hoal jeh’n vodjal, cha row agh nyn ging as nyn gheayltyn ry-akin aym, as ga dy row ad jeeaghyn dy ve er-gerrey dou, cha dug mee enn er fer erbee jeusyn. Va mee fakin yn sleih gleashagh er-y-hoshiaght as y bodjal myrgeddin, as dy-gerrid b’leayr dou dy row kiare deiney ec kione y vodjal gymmyrkey coyr-verriu er carbyd, as va un dooinney cooyl y charbyd er-mooin cabbyl, as hug mee enn er çhelleeragh — she Juan Probert v’ayn er mooin e chabbyl doo. Hass mee jeeaghyn orroo, derrey hie yn bodjal as yn sleih harrish yn awin liorish y raad gys y valley, derrey chaill mee shilley orroo.” | |
| How very strange for us all this story of William’s was, and no more for anyone (else) than for William himself, and we believed every word of the story, because William the shephers was a truthful man in every way. Then, seeing that he was so troubled, I said to him lightly that the vision was a premonition of his wedding, and we went into the chapel, William with us. | S’feer yoarree dooin ooilley va’n skeeal shoh ec Illiam, as chamoo da peiagh erbee na da Illiam-hene, as va shin credjal dy-chooilley ockle jeh’n skeeal, er-y-fa dy re dooinney [13] firrinagh er dy-chooilley chor va Illiam yn bochilley. Eisht, fakin dy row eh wheesh seaghnit, dooyrt mee rish dy-eddrym dy re cowrey ro-laue e vanshey va’n ashlish, as hie shin stiagh ayns y chabbal, as Illiam marin. | |
| But, the strangest thing is behind. A week after that he had been snowing heavily, but William the shepherd went honestly as he used to, over the mountain to see Susan. He didn’t remain long with his sweetheart, because he remembered the journey he had on such a night. | Agh ta’n red s’joarree ergooyl.[8] Shiaghtin ny lurg shen v’eh er ve ceau sniaghtey dy-trome, agh hie Illiam yn bochilley dy-ynrick myr boallagh eh, harrish y clieau dy chur shilley er Susan. Cha hannee eh foddey marish e vyrneen, son by chooinnee lesh yn jurnaa v’echey er lheid yn oie. | |
|
[8] Agh ta’n red s’joarree ergooyl] ‘But, the strangest thing is behind.’ — Evidently, something other than
[ergooyl] was intended here, perhaps
[foast ty-heet] ‘still to come’?
| ||
| Soon after he had left Susan’s house it started to snow dangerously and stormily, and he turned into an inn to wait until the shower would have gone past. | Dy-gerrid lurg da v’er n’aagail thie Susan, ghow eh toshiaght er ceau[9] sniaghtey dy-gaueagh as dorrinagh, as hyndaa eshyn stiagh ayns thie-oast dy uirraghtyn derrey veagh yn frass er n’gholl shaghey. | |
|
[9] er ceau] —
[dy cheau] expected here.
| ||
| He only got one glass, we wouldn’t at any time take more than one, because William was a sober and serious man, and seeinf that it was still snowing and having no sign of ceasing, he proposed to go home. He was completely familiar with the mountain, he had been over it many a time in worse weather, he said, but alas, William never reached his house alive, They found him the next day dead in the snow! | Cha dooar eh agh un ghless, cha beagh eh ec traa erbee goaill ny smoo na ’nane, son she dooinney sheelt as fastagh va Illiam, as fakin dy row eh foast ceau sniaghtey as gyn caslys scuirr er, hug eh roish dy gholl thie. V’eh dy-slane oayllagh rish y clieau, v’eh er ve harrish keayrt ny ghaa ayns earish ny smessey, dooyrt eh, agh atreih, cha rosh Illiam rieau gys e hie bio. Hooar ad eh laa-ny-vairagh marroo | |
| ’sy sniaghtey! | ||
| And now the boys remembered William’s story by the chapel gate and we were wondering and thinking about the matter. In a very few days I and several of the boys who had listened to the William’s story were at the burial, and scarcely could we breath when we saw that there wasn’t anyone on horseback bar Juan Probert himself! | As nish by chooinee lesh ny guillyn skeeal Illiam liorish giat ny cabbal as ghow shin yindys smooinaghtyn er y chooish. Ec kione kuse veg dy laghyn va mish as shiartanse jeh ny guillyn v’er n’eaishtagh rish skeeal Illiam ec yn oanluckey, as s’goan haink eh lhien dy hayrn nyn ennal tra honnick shin nagh row fer erbee ayn er mooin cabbyl agh Juan Probert hene! | |
| Susan broke her heart soon after that, and she died of consumption (the wasting disease; pulmonary tuberculosis). | Vrish Susan e cree dy-gerrid ny lurg shen, as hooar ee baase lesh y ghorley-shimlee. | |
| How you explained such a thing as the story of William the shepherd, I don’t know, but it is as true as am sitting on this chair and many are those living today, who have memories of the case as well as I have, said my uncle Edward. | Crenaght soilshee oo lheid y chooish as skeeal Illiam yn bochilley, cha ’s ayms, agh te cho firrinagh as dy vel mish my hie er y stoyl shoh as shimmey adsyn ta bio jiu, ta cooinaghtyn oc er y chooish chammah as t’aym-pene, dooyrt my naim Edard. | |
| [14] | ||
| Thomas Mathias | Thomas Mathias | |
| It seems to me, said my uncle Edward, all the old soldiers who were at Waterloo are now gone, but I have good memories of several of them, and amongst them was Thomas Mathias. | Stroohene, dooyrt my naim Edard, ta ooilley ny shenn-sidooryn v’ec Waterloo nish ersooyl, agh ta cooinaghtyn mie ayms er shiartanse jeu, as nyn mast’ oc va Thomase Mathias. | |
| Thomas lived in a small house behind the Bluebell Inn in our town. Small indeed that house of Thomas’ was, one of the smallest houses I ever saw in my life, and they said that one afternoon it was, after coming home from his work, the owner Jac the carpenter built that house, and that Thomase was living in it the morning of the next day! At any rate, that is the smallest house I ever saw; a man would reach everything that was in the room without getting up out of his chair, and in the other room, that was doing for a bedroom, there was only a place for a bed. | Va Thomase baghey ayns thie beg cooyl yn thie-oast Bluebell ayns y valley ainyn. S’beg dy-jarroo va’n thie shen ec Thomase, unnane jeh ny thieyn sloo honnick mee rieau ayns my vea, as v’ad gra dy re fastyr ennagh ve, lurg çheet thie veih’n obbyr echey, ren yn shellooder Jac yn seyr, yn thie shen y hroggal, as dy row Thomase cummal synsyn moghrey laa-ny-vairagh! Er cor erbee, shen yn thie sloo honnick mee rieau; oddagh fer sheeyney gagh nhee v’ayns y çhamyr gyn girree ass e stoyl, as cha row ’sy rhum elley, va jannoo myr shamyr-cadlee, agh ynnyd son lhiabbee. | |
| People said, when Thomas was sick one time, that it was through the window he was showing his tongue to the doctor, when he wanted information about his stomach! I don’t know if that is true or not, but anyway, it was in that cabin that Thomas and Betsy were living for many years. | Va sleih gra, tra va Thomase çhing keayrt dy row, dy re trooid yn uinnag v’eh er yeeaghyn e hengey da’n er-lhee, tra v’eshyn laccal fys er stayd y volg echey! Cha s’ ayms my s’feer shen ny dyn, agh aghterbee, she ’sy chabbane shen va Thomase as Betsy e ven baghey rish ymmodee bleeantyn. | |
| Thomas had been in a few battles, and in one of them, — I don’t know if it was in Waterloo — he lost a piece of bone from the top of his head, but the doctors had done a very good, nice job on the old creature’s head, through putting a silver plate over the hole so that his brains would be visible. I saw the silver plate with my own eyes tens of times, and Thomas would be saying that he would be often without a single penny, bar sixpence a day as a pension (annuity) because he had fought on behalf of his country; but was every quarter (year) he would get the money from Sargeant-Major Evans. The major was a very strange man, but that is another story! | Va Thomase er ve ayns kuse dy chaggaghyn, as ayns ’nane jeu, — cha s’ ayms my ve ayns Waterloo — chaill meer dy chraue jeh mullagh e ching, agh va ny fir-lhee er n’yannoo startey feer vie yesh er kione yn çhenn chretoor, trooid claare-argid y chur harrish y towl nagh beagh ny h-enneeyn echey ry-akin. Honnick mish yn claare-argid lesh my hooillyn-hene jeihyn dy hraaghyn, as veagh Thomase gra dy beagh eh dy-mennick gyn ping erbee, agh shey pingyn ’sy laa myr argid-bea (toyrtys-vleaney) er-yn-oyr dy row eh er chaggey ass-lieh e heer; agh she gagh raiee yiogh eh yn argid veih Sgt.-Major Evans. She dooinney feer yoarree va’n major, agh she skeeal elley shen! | |
| Usually, Thomas was as cheerful as the cuckoo, and always as innocent as the dove, but he had one big fault — he was too fond of drink, and Betsy herself was not teetotaler! | Dy-cadjin, va Thomase cho gennal as yn chooag, as dy-kinjagh cho oney as yn chalmane, agh v’aynsyn un oill vooar — v’eh ro ghraihagh er y jough, as cha row Betsy hene ny ben-obbltagh! | |
| [15] | ||
| Although the old couple were so innocent, they weren’t believers at all, and little thought they had about religion. Thomas would only be going to the church once every quarter, which is to say, the very Sunday before the pension pay-day, to remind Sgt.-Major Evans to that he was still alive! | Ga dy row yn çhenn chubbyl cho oney, cha row ad nyn gredjuee edyr, as s’beg va’n smooinaght oc mychione craueeaght. Veeagh Thomase goll gys y cheeill agh un cheayrt gagh raiee, ta shen dy ghra yn Doonaght-hene roish laa-eeck yn argid-bea, er son Sgt.-Major Evans y chur ayns cooinaght dy row eh foast bio! | |
| Thomas would be getting credit on prearranged interest in a small shop, and in one or two of the inns, to wait for his pension day. After reaching the limit of his loan, Thomas and Betsy would be very poor, but the first thing the old soldier would do afterhe had got his money — and he was in this an example to many people today — was to go around to pay his debts, and after that, alas! he and Betsy would spend the rest on drink. But, as I have said, there would be have a shortage for weeks before the pension pay-day, and many’s the skill [ruse] Thomase would perform to get a little drop. | Veagh Thomase geddyn daill gys sym reaght ro-laue ayns shapp veg, as ayns ’nane ny jees jeh ny thieyn-oastey, dy uirraghtyn rish laa yn argid-bea echey. Lurg roshtyn cagliagh yn ghaill[10], veagh Thomase as Betsey feer voght, agh she yn chied nhee yinnagh yn çhenn sidoor lurg da v’er n’gheddyn e argid — as v’eh ’sy chooish shoh ny hampleyr da mooarane sleih t’ayn jiu — va goll mygeayrt dy eeck e lhiastynys, as erreish da shen, atreih! yinnagh eshyn as Betsy baarail yn fooillagh er y jough. Agh, myr ta mee er ghra, veagh genney mooar orroo rish shiaghtinyn roish laa-eeck yn argid-bea, as shimmey yn schlei yinnagh Thomase dy gheddyn bine beg. | |
|
[10] yn ghiall]
[yn ghioal]
| ||
| So, one time, Thomas went to a stranger man who had opened an inn recently in the neighbourhood, and he asked him: “Fair man, will a get a pint of drink (ale) from you?” | Myr shen, keayrt dy row, hie Thomase gys fer joarree v’er n’osley thie-oast er-y-gherrit ’sy naboonys, as yeearree eh er: “Ghooinney chair, nowyms pynt dy yough veue?” | |
| “Yes you will, if you have money,” answered the innkeeper. | “Yiow shiu, my ta argid euish,” dreggyr yn oasteyr. | |
| “I’ll never be without silver”, [the same word is used for money and silver in Manx] said Thomas, and the man extended the drink to him. When he saw that he didn’t move at all to pay him, the innkeeper said, “Where’s the brass, man?” | “Cha beem’s dy-bragh gyn argid,” dooyrt Thomase, as heeyn y dooinney y jough da. Tra honnick eh nagh ren eh gleashagh edyr dy eeck da, dooyrt yn oasteyr, “C’raad ta’n prash, y ghooinney?” | |
| “I have no brass, but I have silver,” answered Thomas, and he pulled his hat off, and he showed the silver-plate on the top of his head to the innkeeper. That surprised him, and he complained that he was decieved for {once??}. | “Cha nel prash erbee ayms, agh ta argid ayms,” dreggyr Thomase, as hayrn eh e edd jeh, as yeeagh eh yn claare-argid er mullagh e ching da’n oasteyr. Hug shen yindys mooar ersyn, as cha ren eh gaccan dy row eh mollit son keayrt. | |
| One cold winter night, Thomase and Betsy were shivering in before a little bit of fire in the grate, and they were extremely cold and hungry, because there was only a week until the pension day. | Un oie feayr gheuree dy row, va Thomase as Betsy bibbernee kiongoyrt rish cooid veg dy aile va ’sy chlean, as v’ad lheadey as g’accyrys, son cha now agh shiaghtin derrey laa yn argid-bea. | |
| Betsy sighed deeply and heavily, and she said: | Dosnee Betsy dy-dowin trome, as dooyrt ee: | |
| “Do you know Thomas, I would like it if I were in Heaven.” | “Vel fys ayds, Homase, b’laik lhiams dy beign ayns Niau.” | |
| “What's that you said?” said Thomas. | “Cre shen dooyrt oo?” dooyrt Thomase. | |
| [16] | ||
| “I would like, in my heart, that I were in Heaven.” answered Betsy. | B’laik lhiams ayns my chree dy beign ayns Niau.” dreggyr Betsy. | |
| “O, that will be, though,” said Thomas, “I myself would like it if I were in the inn with a pint of drink [ale] before me.” | “O, nee shen myr te,” dooyrt Thomase, “b’laik lhiam-pene dy beigns ’sy thie-oast as pynt dy yough kiongoyrt rhym.” | |
| “Aren’t you selfish,” said Betsy, “you’re always searching (for) the best spot for yourself.” | “Nagh sondagh oo,” dooyrt Betsy, “t’ou uss dy-kinjagh shirrey yn boayl share dhyt-hene.” | |
| “I can tell you many of such things about Thomas and Betsy,” said my uncle Edward, but that’s enough to show you hoe ??? and innocent the old people were long ago, and how grateful you, boys of this age ought to be for your educational advantages, and the Sunday School and its particular rights {??} | “Foddym ginsh dhyt ymmodee dy lheid ny reddyn mychione Thomase as Betsy,” dooyrt my naim Edard, agh s’liooar shen dy yeeaghyn dhyt cre cho mee-hushtagh as oney as va’n çhenn sleih foddey-er-dy-henney, as cre cho booisal lhisagh shiuish, guillyn ny h-eash shoh y ve son ny vondeishyn-ynsee eu, as yn Schoill Doonee as e cairyn er-lheh. | |
| [Illustration] | [Illustration] | |
| THE RAGWORT | YN CUSHAG | |
| (Through the kindness of the Manx Museum) | (Trooid kenjalys Yn Thie-Hashtee Vanninagh) | |
| [17] | [17] | |
| Scaan y Thie-Oast | ||
| As Christmas is coming close, said my uncle Edward, it makes me think how people long age used to tell stories about ghosts around about the hearth on a long winter night about this time of the year. Learning and preaching of the Gospel has made a great change in this country since those days, as I remember, although I am not very old. | Myr ta’n Ollick çheet er-gerrey, dooyrt my naim Edard, t’ee cur orrym smooinaghtyn kys b’oayllagh sleih foddey-er-dy-henney ginsh skeealyn mychione scaanyn mygeayrt-y-mysh y çhiollagh er oie liauyr gheuree mysh y traa shoh jeh’n vlein. Ta ynsagh as preaçheil yn Tushtal er n’yannoo caghlaa mooar ’sy cheer shoh neayr’s ny laghyn shen myr s’cooin lhiams, ga nagh vel mee feer shenn. | |
| I remember when I was a young man, that people would believe in the appearance of spirits, and I can name you several places where they would say that something would come in the night. | Ta cooinaghtyn aym tra va mee my ghooinney aeg, dy beagh sleih credjal ayns çheet-rish spyrrydyn, as foddym genmys dhyt shiartanse dy ynnydyn raad veagh ad gra dy beagh red ennagh çheet ’syn oie. | |
| Actually, very decent people believed in their hearts that they had seen a spirit or a ghost or something (of) the sort, that they weren’t able to explain. | Dy-firrinagh, va sleih feer doaieagh ayn credjal ayns nyn greeaghyn dy row ad er vakin spyrryd ny scaan ny red ennagh y lheid shen, nagh row eh çheet lhieu dy chur bun er. | |
| Your grandfather was a keen Methodist, as you know, and he was always angry about the supersition of his neighbours, and great indeed was his concern to show us and to keep us from putting faith in every stupid and foolish story about spirits and so on. | Va dty haner ny Vethodist jeean, myr ta fys ayd, as v’eh corree dy kinjagh rish faasechredjue e naboonyn, as she mooar dy-jarroo va e imnea dy hoilshaghey dooin as dy reayll shin veih cur credjue ayns gagh skeeal ommijagh as thootagh mychione spyrrydyn as nyn lheid. | |
| By the time I had grown up (to be) a young man, I thought that I had no fear at all of so many spirits as there were in the world. But there was a time when I found out that I wasn’t as smart or brave as I thought, because it ‘fell out’ like this: | Liorish yn traa va mee er n’aase seose my ghooinney aeg, va mee smooinaghtyn nagh row veg dy aggle orrym edyr roish whilleen shen dy spyrrydyn as v’ayns y theihll. Agh keayrt dy row hooar mee magh nagh row mee cho gastey ny dunnal as va mee smooinaghtyn, son huitt eh magh myr shoh: | |
| My father and my uncle Peter were almost alike in their worldly goods — people with a large amount around about them, but the money was scarce sometimes. There were five miles between our house and the house of my uncle Peter. To pay some debt, my father borrowed forty pounds from my uncle, and he promised to pay back the money to him without fail, the twentieth of November, that being the day before my uncle’s farm rent day; he realy needed the money to pay the rent, and the butcher who would be buying my father’s sheep had promised to pay fifty pounds to us a fortnight before the forty pounds would be needed. But although he made a promise, the butcher didn’t come forward according to his word, and my father had to explain to him how much he was pressured, and he promised again zealously that he would get the money in time. | Va m’ayr as my naim Peddyr bunnys colaik ayns y chooid heiltagh oc — sleih lesh cooid-vooar mygeayrt-y-moo, agh s’goan va’n argid ny-cheayrtyn. Va queig meeilaghyn jeig eddyr y thie ainyn as y thie ec my naim Peddyr. Dy eeck lhiastynys ennagh ghow m’ayr daeed punt er eeasaght veih my naim, as ghiall eh dy eeck reesht yn argid da gyn failleil yn eedoo laa Mee Houney, shen yn laa roish laa-mayl balley-hallooin my naim; va feme echey dy-jarroo er yn argid dy eeck yn maayl, as va’n buitçhoor veagh kionnaghey kirree my ayrey er ghialdyn geeck jeih punt as daeed dooin kegeesh roish veagh y daeed punt femoil. Agh ga dy ren eh gialdyn, cha daink yn buitçhoor er-e-hoshiaght coardail rish e ockle, as b’egin da m’ayr soilshaghey da crenaght v’eh çhionnt, as ghiall eshyn reesht dy-jeean dy voghe eh yn argid ayns traa. | |
| There was an early winter that year, and there was snow and ice on the ground since days (before). The twentieth of November came without the butcher showing his face to us, and my father was almost out of his mind thinking about the upset he would cause my uncle Peter. But my mother said that he would be sure to come, if we were sedate and calm. | Va geurey moghey ayn ’sy vlein shen, as va sniaghtey as rio er y thalloo neayr’s laghyn. Haink yn eedoo laa Mee Houney gyn yn buitçhoor y yeeaghyn e eddin dooin, as va m’ayr bunnys ass e cheeayl, smooinaghtyn er yn anvea verragh eh er my naim Peddyr. Agh dooyrt my vior dy beagh eh shickyr dy heet, dy beagh shin meein as feagh. | |
| Midday passed without the coming of the butcher, and my father was saying he would never get another sheep from him again, but at about three o’clock, the butcher came and paid him the fifty pounds! At this time, my father was on edge (in a panic) thinking about my uncle’s worry, and I volunteered to go with the money to his house that afternoon. | Hie mun-laa shaghey gyn çheet y vuitçhoor, as va m’ayr gra nagh voghe eh dy-bragh keyrrey voishyn reesht, agh mysh tree er y chlag haink yn buitçhoor as d’eeck eh yn jeih punt as daeed! Ec y traa shoh, va m’ayr er-jeid smooinaghtyn er imnea my naim, as ren mish garral goll lesh yn argid gys e hie yn fastyr shen. | |
| My father wished that I would go on horseback, but because I was wanting to stay there two or three days, I chose to go on foot. It had become dark before I departed, and to make the route shorter, I went over the mountain. | By vian lesh m’ayr dy raghyn er-mooin cabbyl, agh er-yn-oyr dy row mish geearree kied dy uirraghtyn ayns shen ghaa ny tree laghyn, ren mee reih goll er-cosh. Ve er n’aase dorraghey roish jimmee mee roym, as dy yannoo ny s’girrey yn raad, hie mee harrish y clieau. | |
| I had only left the house half an hour, when it came on snowing heavily and dangerously. I walked and I walked and to make the story short, I lost my way! The snow was coming down in big flakes and had made everywhere (an) unfamiliar (place) for me, with me walking for hours without knowing where I was going, and the strangeness, the silence, and (the fact) that I had £40 in my pocket had made me very afraid. | Cha row mee er n’aagail nyn dhie agh lieh-oor, tra haink eh er ceau sniaghtey trome as dy-gaueagh. Hooyl mee as hooyl mee, as dy yannoo yn skeeal giare, chaill mee my raad! Va’n sniaghtey çheet neose ayns floagyn mooarey, as er n’yannoo dy-chooilley voayl ny voayl joarree dou, as mish shooyl rish ooraghyn gyn-yss dou c’raad va mee goll, as va’n joarreeid, yn tostid, as dy row daeed punt ’sy phoggaid aym er chur aggle mooar orrym. | |
| But I’d taken watch (seen to it) to bring a loaded revolver in the breast pocket of my coat, for fear of robbers. | Agh va mee er n’ghoaill arrey dy chur lhiams revolver laadit ayns poggaid chleeau my chooat er-aggle roish roosteyryn. | |
| I don’t know how long I was walking like that, but I had become terribly tired, because, you know, it’s a more difficult thing walking a mile in snow than walking 3 miles on dry land. | Cha s’ ayms cre cho foddey va mee shooyl ’naght shen, agh va mee er n’aase skee atçhimagh, son ta fys ayd, she red ny s’doillee[11] shooyl meeiley ayns sniaghtey na shooyl tree meeilaghyn er thalloo çhirrym. | |
|
[11] she red s’doillee] evidently intended for ‘it’s a more difficult thing’, for which
[t’eh ny s’doillee] whoul be expected.
| ||
| It was clear to me that it was getting late, and I was afraid that I would have to lie down in the snow as tired as I was, when I saw light like candlelight through a window, and I made for it. After I had come to the light I found out that it was coming from a window in a small dwelling, and how poor its appearance was. | B’leayr dou dy row eh g’aase anmagh, as va mee goaill aggle dy b’egin dou lhie sheese ayns y sniaghtey cho skee va mee, tra honnick mee soilshey casley-rish soilshey cainleagh trooid uinnag, as ren mee er e hon. Erreish dou v’er jeet gys y toilshey, hooar mee magh dy row eh çheet veih uinnag ayns cummal beg, as s’boght va’n caslys echey. | |
| I knocked on the door, and the landlord, who was about to go to bed, to came to open it, and he showed me the way of the turnstile. After reaching the turnstile, the road came gradually (back) to my memory, although the snow put a strange look on every place. | Chrank mee er y ghorrys, as haink fer-y-thie, va er-çhee goll dy lhie, dy osley eh, as yeeagh eh dou raad ny keim-hyndaaee. Lurg roshtyn y cheim-hyndaaee, haink yn raad ny veggan as ny veggan gys my chooinaghtyn, ga dy row yn sniaghtey cur shilley joarree er dagh ynnyd. | |
| I remember there was an inn called the Crown nearby me, and I proposed that I wouldn’t go a step further than the inn because I still had 3 miles to make to my uncle Peter’s house, and I was now so tired that it was only by force that I was managing to put the one foot in front of the other, and it was still snowing. | By chooinee lhiam dy row thie-oast enmyssit yn Crown er-gerrey dou, as hug mee roym nagh raghin kesmad ny sodjey na’n thie-oast, son va foast tree meeilaghyn aym dy yannoo dys thie my naim Peddyr, as va mee nish cho skee nagh row eh agh er-egin ve çheet lhiam dy chur yn derrey chass roish y nane elley, as ve foast ceau sniaghtey. | |
| I was afraid that the people of the inn would be away to be, and believe this (believe-you-me), it was myself who was encouraged when I saw light in the window of kitchen. I was almost too tired to knock on the door, when a young man came to open (it), and he brought me in. | Va aggle orrym dy beagh sleih yn thie-oast ersooyl dy lhie, as creid shiu shoh, she mish-hene va currit ayns cree tra honnick mee soilshey ayns uinnag y çhamyr-aarlee. Va mee bunnys ro skee dy chrankal er y ghorrys, tra haink dooinney aeg dy osley, as hug eh lesh mee stiagh. | |
| I told him my condition, and that I had to get a bed there, and he went to bring his mother, and after I had gone over the story again for her, and for those who had spoken about the matter, the mother said: | Dinsh mee my stayd da, as dy b’egin dou geddyn lhiabbee ayns shen, as hie eh dy chur lesh e voir, as lurg dou v’er n’gholl harrish yn skeeal reesht j’ee, as dauseyn v’er loayrt er y chooish, dooyrt y voir: | |
| “I’m sorry, Mister, we can’t give you lodging, even though the night is as cruel as it is. We only have one room that we aren’t using, and to tell you the truth, there’s something strange in that room, so it wouldn’t be worth you at all to look for sleep in it.” | “S’treih lhiam, Vainshter, cha nodmayd cur aaght diu, eer dy vel yn oie cho dewil as t’ayn. Cha nel agh un rhum ainyn nagh vel shin jannoo ymmyd jeh, as ginsh yn irriney diu, ta red ennagh quaagh ayns y rhum shen, myr nagh b’eeu diu edyr y hirrey cadley ayn.[12]” | |
|
[12] myr nagh b’eeu diu edyr y hirrey cadley ayn.] Evidently the intended phrase is ‘so it wouldn’t be worth you trying to sleep in it, at all’ for which the expected translation would be
[myr shen, cha beagh eh feeu diu cadley y hirrey ayn, edyr.]
| ||
| “I’ll take my luck, anyway,” I spoke. | “Goyms m’aigh, aghterbee,” loayr mish. | |
| “That’s good,” said the woman, “but what I have said to you is true.” Then away she went to prepare a bite of supper for me, and to tell the daughter to get the bed ready. When I was having supper, I asked the woman what was up with the place, and I got the whole story from her. To be short, this is how it was; | “S’mie shen,” as y ven, “agh s’feer shen ta mish er ghra riu.” Eisht ersooyl lh’ee dy aarlaghey greim shibberagh dou, as dy ghra rish yn inneen dy yannoo aarloo yn lhiabbee. Tra va mee goaill shibber, vrie mee jeh’n ven, c’red va jannoo er y voayl, as hooar mee yn clane skeeal vo’ee. Dy ve giare, shoh myr v’ee; | |
| They owned the inn, and they had concealed the story from everyone, afraid that it would do harm to the building and licence, but they were in a great hurry to sell it. No one but the mother and the son had heard the spirit, and they hadn’t mentioned a word to the daughter so that she wouldn’t take a fright, because her health was very poor, and they put strict charge on me not to speak to her about the matter, and the mother said: | She lhiuesyn va’n thie-oast, as v’ad er cheiltyn yn skeeal veih dy-chooilley pheiagh, er-aggle dy jinnagh ee skielley da’n thie as oastys, agh va siyr mooar dy chreck eh orroo. Cha row fer erbee er chlashtyn yn spyrryd agh y voir as yn mac, as cha row adsyn er n’imraa fockle rish yn inneen nagh goghe ee aggle, son va’n slaynt eck feer voal, as hug ad currym gyere orryms gyn dy loayrt r’ee mychione y chooish, as dooyrt y voir: | |
| “This boy and I hear it almost every night, and sometimes more than once in the same night, but thank God, I don’t believe that the daughter has heard anything of it, because she’s sleeping in a loft behind the house.” | “Ta’n guilley shoh as mish clashtyn eh bunnys dy-chooilley oie, as ny-cheayrtyn ny smoo na un cheayrt ’syn oie cheddin, agh booise da Jee, cha nel mee credjal dy vel yn innen er chlashtyn veg jeh, son t’ee cadley ayns lout cooyl-y-thie.” | |
| “What do you hear?” I asked. | “C’red vees shiu clashtyn?” vrie mish. | |
| This is how it is, she answered seriously, looking to the door for fear that she would by heard by the daughter, we would hear something opening the door — there’s no lock on it — and immediately shutting it after that. It was in that room that my husband died about a year ago, and my daughter did so much nursing until her health deteriorated, and in my heart I am afraid that she would, at some sudden time, hear the thing that is our worry, because it would be enough for her life {the end of her ??}, and it doesn’t matter to me if I would be gone from here even tomorrow, if I could get something like a proper price for the building. | “Shoh myr te,” dreggyr ee dy-fastagh, jeeaghyn hug[13] y ghorrys er aggle dy beagh ee clashtit ec yn inneen, veagh shin clashtyn er[14] ennagh fosley yn dorrys — cha nel glass erbee er — as çhelleeragh jeigh eh ny lurg shen. She ’sy çhamyr shen hooar my ghooinney-sheshey baase mysh blein er-dy-henney, as ren yn inneen aym wheesh boandyrys er gys chaill ee e slaynt, as ta aggle er my chree, dy jinnagh ee traa ennagh dy-doaltattym, clashtyn yn red ta nyn moirey, er-yn-oyr b’liooar j’ee son e bioys, as s’cummey lhiams dy beigns ersooyl veih shoh mairagh-hene, dy nowin red ennagh gollrish leagh cooie son y thie.” | |
|
[13] jeeaghyn hug] ‘looking to’;
[jeeaghyn rish] would be expected here, or
[jeeaghyn lesh] ‘looking towards’.
[14] er] — although
[fer] is intended here,
[peiagh ennagh] would be expected for ‘someone’.
| ||
| Straight away, the daughter came in and she put a candle on the table, and she said that my bed was ready, and she uttered “goodnight” to me. She had a withered and astonishing look, and how easy it was for me to believe that she wasn’t in good health, then we all went to bed. | Er-y-chooyl, haink yn inneen stiagh as hug ee cainle er y voayrd, as dooyrt ee dy row my lhiabbee aarloo, as d’ocklee ee ‘oie vie’ orryms. Va caslys shymlit as thanvanagh urree, as b’aashagh lhiam credjal nagh row ee ayns slaynt vie, eisht hie shin ooilley dy lhie. | |
| The three bedrooms where I was, (with) the son, and the mother sleeping in them, were on the same floor, and the daughter was sleeping somewhere in the the top of the house. Due to my tiredness and the woman’s ghost story, I didn’t manage to sleep at all, and I had put my revolver on a small table near to me. | Va ny tree shamyrym boayl va mish, yn mac, as y voir cadley ayndoo, er yn eaghtyr-laare cheddin, as va’n inneen cadley boayl ennagh ayns mullagh y thie. Kyndagh rish my skeeys as skeeal scaanagh ny ben, cha daink eh lhiam dy chadley edyr, as va mee er chur my revolver er boayrd beg er-gerrey dou. | |
| Some time after that I thought that I heard a sound outside of the room. I lit the candle quickly and I took a hold of my revolver, because I was fully prepared that I would find out if it was some rogue that was worrying these innocent people, that I would make a few holes in him! But, the next minute, when the door opened, I fell shaking like a leaf, and more like that when I saw the young girl in her nightwear coming straight to my bed, and looking calmly in my eyes, saying, “Are you getting better, dear father?” | Traa ennagh ny lurg shen heill mee dy row mee clashtyn sheean çheu-mooie jeh’n çhamyr. Doad mee y chainle dy-tappee as ghow mee greim er my revolver, son va mee slane kiarit dy nowin magh dy nee mitçhoor ennagh va boirey yn sleih oney shoh, dy jinnin kuse veg dy huill aynsyn! Agh, yn nah vinnid, tra doshil yn dorrys, huitt mee er-craa gollrish duillag, as ny smoo myr shen tra honnick mee inneen aeg ayns e coamrey-cadley çheet dy-jeeragh gys my lhiabbee, as jeeaghyn dy-kiune ayns my hooillyn, gra, “Vel shiu couyral ayr my chree?” | |
| Then she turned on her heel, she shut the door after her, and I didn’t see her again until the morning. | Eisht hyndaa ee er e boyn, yeigh ee yn dorrys ny jei, as cha vaik mee arragh ee gys y voghrey. | |
| The poor thing was the girl of the house, sleep-walking. Her concern and her care for her father throughout his illness had done great harm to her, and from the day he was buried, she had been getting up and walking in her sleep for a year, unknown to herself or to the mother or to her brother. | She inneen y thie va’n voght, shooyl ny cadley. Va e h-imnea as e kiarail son e h-ayr trooid-magh e hingys er n’yannoo skielley mooar j’ee, as veih’n laa v’eh oanluckit, v’ee er ve girree as shooyl ny cadley rish blein, gyn-yss j’ee hene ny da’n voir ny da’n vraar eck. | |
| So, I am the man who brought down the ghost of the Crown, and the gratitude of the mother and the brother to me was beyons measure (incredible). We were friends forever, and I would go to the Crown as I would be going home, said my uncle Edward. | Myr shen, she mish y dooinney ren cur sheese scaan y Crown, as va booise ny mayrey as y vraarey dou erskyn-towse. Va shin nyn gaarjyn dy-bragh, as veign goll dys y Crown myr dy beign goll thie, dooyrt my naim Edard. | |
| The Boy’s Dog | Moddey yn Ghuilley | |
| My uncle Edward said: I have mentioned to you before about Thomas Burgess, the foreman of the cotton-mill. His wife was years younger than him, and they had one child, a boy of about nine years of age. | Dooyrt my naim Edard: Ta mee er n’imraa rhyt roie mychione Thomase Burgess, furriman y wyllin-cadee. Va’n ven echey bleeantyn ny s’aa na eshyn, as va un paitçhey [sic] oc, guilley mysh nuy bleeaney dy eash. | |
| Although Burgess was a somewhat cruel man, as I said, he was very fond of his son, and giving him almost more that his fill of luxury, and Burgess’ wife would do that: actually, many people would believe that old Burgess and his wife weren’t wishful for anything else in this life, but the happiness and delight of the boy Hugh. | Ga dy re dooinney cooid veg dewil va Burgess, myr dooyrt mee, v’eh feer ghraihagh er e vac, as cur bunnys smoo na e haie dasyn dy hoaillidyn, as shen yinnagh Ben Burgess: dy-firrinagh, veagh ymmodee sleih credjal nagh row shenn Burgess as e ven miandagh er red erbee elley ’sy vea shoh, agh maynrys as eunys ny ghuilley Hugh. | |
| Hugh loved dumb living creatures best, and through the kindness of his father and his mother he had many sorts of birds in the house and behind the house — doves, rabbits, a little donkey, and I don’t know how many other things, and the boys of the neighbourhood would be envious of the number of his livestock. | Bynney lesh Hugh cretooryn bio balloo, as trooid kenjallys e ayrey as e vayrey va ymmodee sorçhyn dy ein echey ’sy thie as cooyl y thie — calmaneyn, conneeyn, assyl veg, as cha ’s ayms cre whilleen dy reddyn elley, as veagh troo er guillyn y naboonys rish earroo e stock-bio. | |
| Hugh would be going to a school that was about a mile from his house, and to avoid going to and fro, he would bring his dinner with him in a little basket to the school. On the other side of the highway from the school, in one of those little houses, you see, a man called Martin was living, who used to earn his means of living — honourable enough as far as I know — by selling nuts, oranges, rock, and things like that, and he would frequent the markets in the towns around about the country. | Veagh Hugh goll dy schoill va mysh meeiley voish e hie, as dy haghney goll noon as noal, verragh eh e yinnair leshyn ayns baskad veg dys y schoill. Cheu-hoal jeh’n raad veih’n schoill, ayns ’nane jeh ny thieyn beggey shen, t’ou toiggal, va dooinney baghey enmyssit Martin, veagh cosney e haase-vaghee — onneragh dy-liooar choud as shione dooys — liorish creck croiyn, oranjyn, rock, as lheid ny reddyn shen, as veagh eh taaghey ny margaghyn ayns ny baljyn mygeayrt-y-mysh y çheer. | |
| Martin was an irishman, and he would have a small, light cart, the top of it level like a table, to carry his goods to the markets, and it would serve as a stall for him. There’d be two very big dogs pulling the little cart. Martin would jump on the top of the cart to go down the slopes and the dogs would be running like lightning. Agh b’egin da Martin cooney lhieu seose ny h-ughteeyn. Ghow mee yindys dy-mennick rish niart ny moddee moarey ec Martin, ec cho shirveishagh as v’ad. Va tree moddee echey, as she Sam va ennym yn ’er shinney. | She Yernagh va Martin, as veagh cairt veg eddrym er kiare queeylyn echey, as y mullagh eck rea myr boayrd, dy ymmyrkey e chooid dys ny margaghyn, as veagh ee shirveish myr stoll da. Veagh daa voddey feer vooar tayrn y chairt veg. Lheimmagh Martin er mullagh ny cairt dy gholl sheese ny lhargeeyn, as veagh ny moddee roie myr tendreil. Agh b’egin da Martin cooney lhieu seose ny h-ughteeyn. Ghow mee yindys dy-mennick rish niart ny moddee moarey ec Martin, as cre cho shirveishagh as v’ad. Va tree moddee echey, as she Sam va ennym yn ’er shinney. | |
| Sam had worked diligently to and fro on the hard highways for many years and had grown old, and you know, that ten years is the same as hundred years for a dog. Nevertheless, Sam was twelve years of age, and one day he became very lame, and he couldn’t pull the cart anymore. Sam was an invalid in Martin’s shed for weeks, and Hugh Burgess would go to him with some of his dinner every day he’d be in school, and the the dog and he had become true friends. | Va Sam er n’obbraghey dy-jeadagh noon as noal er ny raaidyn creoi rish ymmodee bleeantyn as er n’aase shenn, as ta fys ayd, dy vel jeih bleeaney yn un red lesh keead blein da moddey. Ny yeih, va Sam daa vlein yeig dy eash, as laa dy row, haink eh dy ve feer chroobagh, as cha yarg eh arragh tayrn yn chairt. Va Sam ny aslayntagh ’sy waag ec Martin rish shiaghtinyn, as ragh Hugh Burgess huggey lesh paart jeh e yinnair gagh laa veagh eh ’sy schoill, as va’n moddey as eshyn er jeet dy ve nyn gaarjyn firrinagh. | |
| Martin had no hopes at all that Sam would recover so well as start his work afresh in the cart, and therefore he would give him half his fill of food, and were it not for Hugh Burgess Sam would have atarved long before. | Cha row jerkallyn erbee ec Martin dy darragh Sam my-laue cho mie as dy ghoaill toshiaght ass-y-noa er e obbyr ’sy chairt, as er-y-fa shen cha derragh eh da lieh e haie dy vee, as er-be son Hugh Burgess veagh Sam er n’gholl neeu foddey-er-dy-henney. | |
| One midday,, when Hugh was bringing some of his dinner to Sam, he saw Martin going to the court with a gun under his arm. Hugh ran and asked he asked Martin what he was about to do. “Shoot Sam,” Martin said, “because he won’t be fit for anything anymore.” | Munlaa dy row, tra va Hugh cur lesh paart jeh e yinnair da Sam, honnick eh Martin goll roish gys y chooyrt as gunn fo’n oghrish echey. Roie Hugh as vrie eh jeh Martin c’red v’eh er-çhee jannoo. “Lhiggey Sam,” dooyrt Martin, “er-yn-oyr nagh bee eh cooie son red erbee arragh.” | |
| Hugh started to cry bitterly, and he begged him if would (could) take Sam home with him, and that permission was given to him quickly, because Martin was glad to get rid of the old dog. Sam was looking as if he would understand the matter between Hugh and Martin, because when his master turned his back and brought the gun to the house, Sam shook his tail, as if a great weight had gone from his mind. Sam had seen a partner or two / many partners shot after becoming lame and failing to pull the cart, but that night Hugh took Sam home, and how great was the effort the old dog on three legs (made) following him! | Huitt Hugh er keayney dy-sharroo, as ren eh aghin huggey dy gowagh eh Sam marish dy-valley, as va’n kied shen currit da dy-tappee, son by vie lesh Martin geddyn rey rish yn çhenn voddey. Va Sam jeeaghyn myr dy beagh eh toiggal y chooish eddyr Hugh as Martin, son tra ren e vainster çhyndaa e ghreeym as cur leshyn y gun dys y thie, chraa Sam e amman, myr dy beagh trimmid moar er n’gholl jeh’n aigney echey. Va Sam er n’akin sheshey ny ghaa da lhiggit erreish da çheet dy ve croobagh as failleil tayrn y chairt, agh yn oie shen ghow Hugh Sam marish dy-valley, as by vooar eab[15] yn çhenn voddey er tree cassyn geiyrt er! | |
|
[15] by vooar eab] — evidently intended to translate ‘what a great effort it was’ — the attributive adjective
[mooar] would be expected after
[eab] —
[eab mooar v’eh son] ‘is was a great effort for’.
| ||
| Although Hugh’s father and mother were so placid to him, they gave a severe telling-off to the boy for bringing such a big clumsy, hairy and hungry creature near to the house, and Burgess wanted to shoot the dog right away. But Hugh knew about his father’s weak will, and he started crying bitterly and copiously, and finally he got permisson to turn out the little donkey, and give the donkey shed to the dog. | Ga dy row ayr as moir Hugh cho kiune da, hug ad oghsan gyere da’n ghuilley son cur lesh lheid y cretoor mooar maaigagh, mollagh as accryssagh faggys da’n thie, as by vian lesh Burgess lhiggey yn moddey çhelleeragh. Agh va fys ec Hugh er meillid-aigney e ayrey, as huitt eh er keayney dy-sharroo palçhey, as fy yerrey hooar eh kied hyndaa magh yn assyl veg, as cur bwaag ny h-assyl da’n voddey. | |
| By means of a freat deal of care, kindness, and enough food, Sam took (gained) strength wonderfull, but his foot didn’t get ever get better. Every night, after Hugh had come home from school, Sam would be seen following him lamely and slowly on the road. | Liorish mooarane kiarail, kenjallys, as bee dy-liooar, ghow Sam niart dy-yindyssagh, agh cha daase e chass ny share rieau. Gagh oie, lurg da Hugh v’er jeet thie veih’n schoill, , veagh Sam ry-akin g’eiyrt er dy-croobagh moal er y raad.[16] | |
|
[16] raad] ‘route’, ‘way’, ‘highway’. Often used in revived Manx for ‘road’.
| ||
| At that time, there was a hansome little rowing boat on the mill pond, but no one had permission to touch er except he who owned it, and the foreman of the will and their families, and Hugh had learnt to row the boat very capably. | Ec y traa shen, va baatey-ymmyrt beg bwaagh er loghan y wyllin, agh cha row kied ec fer erbee bentyn r’ee er-lhimmey jehsyn by lesh ee, as furriman y wyllin as nyn lught-thieyn, as va Hugh er n’ynsaghey gymmyrt y baatey dy-feer aghtal. | |
| One Summer evening, Burgess, his wife and Hugh to the pond, with Sam walking lamely following them. Hugh wanted to show the father and his mother how capable he was managing to row the boat, but his mother was against it, because it was starting to get dark. | Fastyr souree dy row, hie Burgess, e ven as Hugh shooyl gys y loghan, as Sam shooyl dy-croobagh g’eiyrt orroo. By vian lesh Hugh jeeaghyn da’n ayr as y voir echey cre cho aghtal as v’eh çheet lesh dy ymmyrt y baatey, agh va e voir n’oi, er-yn-oyr dy row eh goaill toshiaght er keeiraghey. | |
| “Let him go,” said Burgess, and Hugh went easily from the shore. When he was in the middle of eh pond, the old Burgess watched his son with loving eyes, and he said, “What a wonderful boy that will be, if he come to age.” | “Lhig yn raad da,” dooyrt Burgess, as hie Hugh dy-aashagh veih’n traie. Tra v’eh ayns mean y loghan, yeeagh yn çhenn Burgess er e vac lesh sooillyn graihagh, as dooyrt eh, “Cre’n guilley yindyssagh vees shen, my jig eh gys eash.” | |
| Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when Hugh lost his grip on the oar, and he fell out of the boat into the deep water. The father and the mother called, out of their minds with fear, but there was no one near to hear and to help them. In the same instant, the old dog jumped into the pond, but his defective leg was preventing him from swimming but slowly. Hugh’s head became visible, and then he went out of sight again, and like that, two or three times, whilst poor Sam was trying his best to go to him. | S’coan va ny fockleyn ass e veal, tra chaill Hugh e ghreim er y vadjey-raue, as huitt eh magh ass y vaatey stiagh ayns yn ushtey dowin. Deie yn ayr as y voir magh ass nyn geeayl lesh aggle, agh cha row fer erbee er-gerrey dy chlashtyn as dy chooney lhieu. ’Sy tullagh cheddin, lheim yn çhenn voddey stiagh ayns y loghan, agh va e chass lheamyssagh lhiettal da snaue agh dy-maol. Haink kione Hugh ry-akin, as eisht hie eh ass-shilley reesht, as myr shen daa cheayrt ny tree, choud’s va Sam boght shirrey e chooid share dy gholl huggey. | |
| Then they lost sight of the dog and the boy, and Mrs. Burgess began to rip her clothing, not knowing what to do, but presently they saw Sam’s head above the surface of the water, and he was making for the shore, and pulling something behind him, and seeming to be just like ‘himself’ when he’d be pulling the cart long ago, — his head up, and shaking his ears to drive away the flies. | Eisht chaill ad shilley er y voddey as er y ghuilley, as ghow Benainster Burgess toshiaght er raipey e h-eaddagh, gyn-yss j’ee c’red v’ee jannoo, agh ny-sheyn, honnick ad kione Sam erskyn eaghtyr yn ushtey, as v’eh jannoo son y traie, as tayrn red ennagh ny yei, as jeeaghyn dy ve kiart goll-rish-hene tra veagh eh tayrn y chairt foddey-er-dy-henney, — e chione heose, as craa e chleayshyn dy eiyrt ersooyl ny quaillaghyn. | |
| Soon he came close enough to Burgess, so that eh could see that he had something between his teeth, — it was Hugh’s jacket he had, indeed it was, and Sam was pulling Hugh himself to the shore! | Dy-leah haink eh faggys dy-liooar da Burgess, dy voddagh eh fakin dy row red ennagh echey eddyr e eeacklyn, — she jaggad Hugh v’echey, dy-jarroo ve, as va Sam tayrn Hugh-hene gys y traie! | |
| After thay had got the boy on dry land Hugh was, for a long, long time, coming to his senses, and Sam was, were anyone to take notice of him, after he had shaken the water once or twice out of his long, hairy, ear, keeping watch over on Hugh’s revival just as anxiously as anyone else. But poor Sam in his old age, he had done too much that night. He couldn’t walk home. | Erreish daue v’er n’gheddyn yn guilley er y thalloo çhirrym va Hugh rish foddey foddey dy hraa çheet huggey-hene; as va Sam, dy beagh er erbee[17] goaill tastey jeh, lurg da v’er chraa yn ushtey keayrt ny ghaa ass e gheaysh mollagh liauyr, freayll arrey er aa-vioghey Hugh kiart cho imneagh as fer erbee elley. Agh Sam boght ayns e henn eash, v’eh er n’yannoo rouyr yn oie shen. Cha dod eh shooyl dy-valley. | |
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[17] er erbee]
[fer erbee]
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| They brought a barrow from the mill to carry him, but Sam died before the morning. Hugh almost broke his heart for his dog, and the neighbours were saying that they didn’t know which of them was more evident in Burgess — his joy for the deliverance of his son, or his sorrow for Sam’s death. | Hug ad lhieu barrey veih’n wyllin dy ymmyrkey eh, agh hooar Sam baase roish y voghrey. Dobbyr da Hugh brishey e chree son e voddey, as va ny naboonyn gra nagh row fys oc quoi jeu va ny s’cronnal ayns Burgess — e voggey son livrey-ys e vac, ny e heaghyn son baase Sam. | |
| That affair did a great much good to the foreman, — he was always kinder to everyone, and he made an oak coffin for Sam, and he put a memorial stone on his grave! I don’t know if the stone is still there or not, said my uncle Edward. | Ren y chooish shen foays mooar da’n urriman, — v’eh dy-kinjagh ny s’kenjaley rish dy-chooilley pheiagh, as ren eh coyr-verriu gharragh da Sam, as hug eh clagh-chooinaghtyn er yn oaie echey! Cha ’s ayms vel yn chlagh ayns shen foast ny dyn, dooyrt my naim Edard. | |