| Manx | English | |
|---|---|---|
| YNSAGHEY GHENGEY GHOOIE MY-HENE.[1] | THE STUDY OF MY OWN NATIVE LANGUAGE. | |
|
[1] Ynsaghey Chengey Hooie My-Hene] ‘the study of my own language’, expected form would be
[Ynsagh My Hengey Hooie’s] or,
[Ynsagh My Hengey Hooie Hene].
| ||
| Va mee ruggit ayns Ballachashtal ayns yn vlein 1887, as va my ayr, enmyssit Tomas McComas, ruggit cheu-mooie Ballasalla ’s yn vlein 1856. Va eh-hene ny ghooinney Manninagh dooie, as ass y chlean Gaelg e ghlare. | I was born in Castletown in the year 1887 and my father, named Thomas Comish, was born outside Ballasalla in the year 1856. Himself was a true Manxman and, from the cradle, Manx was his language. | |
| Tra va mee aeg va my ayr gobbraghey ec Knock Rushen, balley-hallooin cheu-mooie y valley as s’mennick va mee marish ayns shen, shooyl mysh ny magheryn marish. Dy-kinjagh vrie mee eh, “Cre ta yn ennym Ghailck er shoh?,” as ga dinsh eh dou eh, dooyrt eshyn nagh beagh eh ymmyd er-bee dou ny enmyn adshen dy ynsaghey, agh lurg tammylt daase eh skee ginsh y lhied dou, er yn oyr dy row mee thurneishagh, as cha dug mee geill rish cre dooyrt eh. She shen myr v’eh, eisht, dy row ny enmyn Ghailck aym er ayrn s’moo jeh reddyn va gaase ayns ny magheryn. | When I was young my father was working at Knock Rushen, a farm outside the town and how often I was with him there, walking about the fields with him. Always, I asked him “What’s the Manx name for this?” and although he told it to me, he said that it wouldn’t be of any use to me to learn those names, but after a while he got fed-up of telling me such, because I was stubborn and I paid no heed to what he said. That is how it was, then, that I knew the Manx names for most of the things that were growing in the fields. | |
| Dy dooghyssagh dy liooar, cha row red er-bee Vanninagh ynsit dooin ayn schoill, cha nee shenn skeeal ny chengey ny Hellen, agh red ny b’are va fys ocsyn dy yannoo Hostynee miey beggey ass-jin, as haink eh lhieu shen y yannoo ny cheayrtyn! | Naturally enough, there was nothing at all Manx taught to us in school, it wasn’t the old story of the language of the Island, but something better they knew to make good little Englishmen out of us, and they managed to do that sometimes! | |
| D’ynsee my ayr yn Abadil dou roish mie hie mee[2] dys schoill ec queig bleeaney dy eash, as cha nel foast ta mee er my yarroodey M as N myr dynsee eh ad dou, va ad ebM as edN. | My father taught the alphabet to me before I went to school at five years of age, and not yet have I forgotten M and N as he taught them to me, they were ebM and edN. | |
|
[2] roish mie hie mee] likely error for
[roish my jagh mee] ‘before I went’
| ||
| She shen myr va ny shenn Manninee loayrt. Hug ad ‘litir’ aynshoh as aynshen ayn fockle ennagh raad cha lhisagh ad ve[3]: Va ben, bedn, shenn sheddan, gimraa agh jees. | That is how the old Manx people were speaking. They put a leter in here and there in some word where they ought not to be. ‘Ben’ (‘woman’) was “bedn” and ‘shenn’ (‘old’) “sheddan”, mentioning but two. | |
|
[3] ve] text gives
[bee]
| ||
| Cha gooin lhiam[4] er Gailck er-bee dy dynsee my ayr dou lesh aigney-seyr e hene, as dy arryltagh. B’egin dou dy vriaght dagh ooilley nhee! | I don’t remember any Manx that my father taught me by his own free-will, and willingly. I had to ask every thing! | |
|
[4] Cha gooin lhiam] ‘I don’t remember’, text gives
[Cha s’cooin lhiam]
| ||
| Va deiney elley y chenn heeloghe dy dug[5] mee shilley orroo ny-cheayrtyn, as, oie dy row, tra daag mee shenn ghooinney va baccagh va ynsaghey Gailck dou, dooyrt eshyn ‘Oie vie, kern.’ | There were other people of the old generation that I visited sometimes, and, one night, when I left an old man who was lame who was teaching Manx to me, he said, “Goodnight, ‘kern.” | |
|
[5] dy dug] independent for ‘hug’ would be expected here.
| ||
| ‘C’red ta “kern”?’ vrie mee eh. | “What’s “kern?” I asked him. | |
| ‘“Kern?” Ta kern yn chair ockle Ghailck son “soldier” as eshyn. ‘T'ad gra “sidoor,” agh cha nee cair t’eh. She fockle Baarle t’eh! Ta kern yn chair ockle Ghailck son “soldier”.’ | “Kern is the proper Manx word for ‘soldier’” he said. “They say ‘sidoor’ now, but it is not proper. ‘Kern’ is the proper Manx word for ‘soldier’.” | |
| ‘Cavalry ny infantry?’ vrie mee eh. | “Cavalry or infantry?” I asked him. | |
| ‘Cha nel fys aym er ny focklyn adshen,’ as eshyn. ‘agh adsyn ta ayn nish! Adsyn cha nel cabbil ocsyn.” | “I don’t know those words,” he said. “But those that are in now! Those that don’t have horses.” | |
| (Va sheshaght veg dy hidooryn Sostnagh ’syn valley ec y traa shen, er aggle dy veagh ny Manninee irree magh!) | (There was a small company of British soldiers in the town at that time, in case the Manx would rebel!) | |
| Daag mee schoill roish my va mee kiare-jeig bleinteeyn dy eash, as hoshiagh mee[6] gobbraghey ayn shapp y vuinneyder[7], as lurg blein hoshiagh mee dy ynsagh dy ve my uinneyder. Va ‘cruinn’ aym, creckey[8] arran, ayns ny fastyryn-beggey, as shimmey shenn ven-ny-cheerey va Gailck eck ny mast ocsyn va mee creck arran daue, as shen myr dynsee mee mooarane vouesyn. Dy jarroo, va ghaa jeu gra, ‘cha chionnyms dty arran Eoinin, er-lhimmey t’ou loayrt Gailck!’ | I left school before I was fourteen years of age, and I started working in a bakery, and after a year I started to learn to be a baker. I had a round, selling bread, in the evenings, and many’s the old country woman who knew Manx amongst those that I was selling bread to, and that is how I learnt a lot from them. Indeed, there were two saying, “I won’t buy your bread Johnny, unless you speak Manx!” | |
|
[6] hoshiagh mee] ‘started’ / ‘began’, elsewhere
[hoshee mee],
[ghow mee toshiaght], or
[vegin mee].
[7] shapp y vuinneyder] ‘the baker’s shop’,
[shapp yn ’uinneyder] would be expected, or perhaps
[shapp ny vuinneyder] ‘the bakers’ shop’.
[8] creckey]
[creck]
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| Boallagh dou dy chur shilley er thie my naim, as va Book of Manx Songs echey, as gagh laa yeeagh mee stiagh ayns y lioar shen, va ayns Baarle as Gailck. | It was usual for me to visit my uncle’s house and he had a “Manx Book of Songs”, and every day I looked into hat book, that was in English and Manx. | |
| Va my cooinaghtyn gyere aym ayns ny laghyn adshen, as bee’m[9] goaill ayrn jeh drane ass arrane as eisht briaght my ayr er y hon[10] yn chiar aght[11] dy loayrt ny focklyn. Sh’immey’n ‘caggey reeoil’ va eddyr ainyn tra hug eh ‘d’ ny ‘b’ ayn fockle ennagh! ‘Cha nee kiart ta shoh,’ boallagh mee dy ghra. ‘She shoh myr t’eh screeuit—cha nel “d” ayn.’ | My memory was sharp in those days and I’ll be singing sing a song with a part of a verse out a song and then asking my father the correct way to pronounce the words. Many’s the “battle royale” there was between us when he put “d” or “b” in some word — “This is not correct”, I used to say, “This is how it is written — there’s no ‘d’ in it”. | |
|
[9] bee’m] ‘I will be’, evidently
[beign] ‘I would be’ was intended.
[10] er y hon] ‘for it’ / ‘for him’. Comish often uses this instead of
[son] ‘for’.
[11] yn chair aght] ‘the proper way’.
[yn aght cairagh] would be the excpected form. See also
[yn chair ’ockle]
| ||
| Chaill eh e happey ny s’mennick na un cheayrt myr dooyrt eshyn ‘Cha nel fys ayms cre’n aght t’eh screeuit, agh she shen myr ta yn aght t’eh loayrit!’ | He almost lost his mind more than once as he said “I don’t know how it’s spelt, but that is how it is spoken!” | |
| V’eh red cheddin lesh ‘Corneil ny Baitchyn’, colum ayns Baarle as Gailck liorish J. J. Kneen ayns Yn Vrialtagh Ellan Vannin. Hass mish lesh ‘Yn Ockle Screeuit,’ as hass eshyn lesh yn aght va Gailck er ve ny loayrt son sheeloghyn gyn earroo, foddey roish va ee scruit, as quoi mish dy ghra nagh row cairt echey. | It was (the) same thing with “Corneil ny Baitchyn” (‘The Children’s Corner’) a column in English and Manx by J. J. Kneen in “The Isle of Man Examiner”. I would stand with the written word and my father would stand with on the way Manx had been spoken for innumerable generations, long before it was written, and who am I to say that he wasn’t correct. | |
| Myr dooyrt eh laa dy row, “T’ad cheet harrish dy-shoh, as ta ad eabbey dy ynsaghey dooin yn chair aght dy loayrt hengey ghooie ain-hene.’ | As he said one day, “They’re coming over here, and they’re trying to teach us the proper way to speak our own native tongue!” | |
| Dy-jarroo ta mee smooinagh dy vel yn Ghailck er ny gholl veih olk dy ny s’messey! Hooar mee lioaran ass yn Ellan tammylt er dy, as dimraa eh aitt[12] ta fys er aym, as dooyrt yn lioaran dy row yn chair aght dy loayrt yn ennym er ‘Pooyl Vaysh!’ T’eh screeuit ‘Poyll Vaaish’, as va mee my lhiannoo, goaill greme er laue my ayrey, tra vaik mee yn ynnyd shen son y chied cheayrt, as dinsh eh dou dy row yn ennym er ‘Pul Vahsh!’ | Indeed, I think the Manx language has gone from bad to worse! I got a pamphlet from the Island a while ago and it mentioned a place I know about, and the pamphlet said that the proper way to speak (sic) the name of the place is “Pool Vaysh”. It’s written “Pooyl Vaaish”, and I was a child, holding my father’s hand, when I saw that place for the first time, and he told me that the name of it was “Pul Vahsh!” | |
|
[12] aitt] likely
[ard] ‘a place’, or
[a region], see SG:
[àite].
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| T’ad gra, jiu, yn A myr t’ee ayn say, Baarle, ayns ynnyd jeh A myr t’ee ayn man, Baarle, as ny cheayrtyn myr lhisagh bee ee myr Á, Eirinagh, ayns yn ockle Balla. She shen myr lhisagh bee AA loayrt, as cha nee myr AE, myr t’ad gra jiu. | They say, today, the A as it is in English ‘say’, instead of A as it is in English ‘man’, and sometimes as if it should be like Á in Irish, in the word Balla. That as how AA should be said, and not like AE, as they say today. | |
| She shen myr dy b’eigin dou dy ynsaghey chengey ghooie my hene, as cre vondeish t’ee er ve dou car ny bleinteeyn. Cha row ee mooarane, er-y-hon hie me roym er y cheayn tra va mee er my ynsaghey dy ve my uinneyder. She reggyryn bleintyn va carrey aym ayn Liverpool, raad va mee shiaulley magh ass, guilley goll-rhympene b’ynney lesh er yn chenn ghlare, as va Shamus Mac Andreas yn ennym ersyn. Tra haink mee dy-valley ec jerrey my hyrryssyn boallagh shin dy hagloo ayns y chenn ghlare, agh hooar eh baase. Ny-cheayrtyn, ny-yeih, beagh Albinagh ny Eiriernagh er lhong marym va Gaelg e hene echey, as beagh beggan co-loayrtys eddyr ain. Agh, lesh goll-shaghey ny vleinteeyn, daase yn Ghailck aym annoon as ny s’annooney, as va glareaghyn elley goaill yn ynnyd j’ee, er yn oyr dy row mee rieau cha jeean dy ynsaghey glaraghyn elley myr va mee dy ynsaghey yn Ghailck. | That’s how I had to learn my native language myself, and what advantage has it been for mee through the years. It wasn’t much, because I went to sea when I had been trained to be a baker. For a few years I had a friend in Liverpool, where I was sailing out from, a boy like myself who loved the old language. James Anderson (or, McAndrews) was his name. When I came home at the end of my trips we used to talk in the old language, but he died. Sometimes, though, there would be a Scotsman or an Irishman on a ship with me who had his own Gaelic, and there would be a little bit of conversation between us. But, woth the passing of the years, my Manx became weaker and weaker, and other languages were taking her place, because I was always as keen to learn other languages as I was to learn the Manx language. | |
| Cha nee yindys, eisht, dy row veg jee er-mayrn dou tra haink mee my-hwoaie dy yn cheer shoh, cheer ny veinnyn aihrey, as ayndoo va deiney ass Albin Noa gobbraghey. Hug mee argid harrish yn aarkey dy Ellan Vannin, as hooar mee Fockleyr Ghailck as Baarle, as hoshiagh mee dy ynsaghey Gailck reesht, er-y-hon b’aill lhiam dy loayrt rish ny Albinee-Noaey. Ny yeih, cha daink eh lhiam dy yannoo cre va mee jerkal dy yannoo. Duirree mee ayns yn valley shoh, as ga whail mee deiney va Gailck ocsyn aynshoh, cha row wheesh chaa aym ee dy loayrt. She shen myr t’eh, eisht, ta Gailck ayn my chione, agh cha nee er my hengey t’ee! | No wonder, then, that there was nothing of her left for me when I came north to this country, the land of gold mines, and in them there were men from Nova Scotia working. I sent money over the ocean to the Isle of Man, and I got a Manx and English Dictionary, and I started to learn Manx again, because I wanted to talk to the Nova Scotians. Yet, I didn’t manage to do what I was hoping to do. I stayed in this town, and although I met men who knew Gaelic here, I did’'t have as much opportunity to speak it. That is how it is, then, there’s Manx in my head, but it isn’t on my tongue! | |
| (Nish, lesh booise dy my charrey Pádraig, ta Albinagh as Eirienagh aym dy ynsaghe, dy-liooar, dy jarroo, dy my reayll tarroogh ooilley laghyn my lhing roym!) — Kirkland Lake, Ceanaide, 1953. | (Now, with thanks to my friend Pádraig, I have Scottish and Irish to learn, enough, to keep me busy all the days of my life ahead of me!) — Kirkland Lake, Canada, 1953. | |