Ta'n emshyr ain quaagh

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Manx English
Ta’n emshyr ain quaagh car-ny-bleeaney Our weather is strange throughout the year,
Fud ooilley ny boiraghyn t’ayn Amongst all the worries that there are,
Anvennick ta dooiney feer chreeney Rarely does a very wise man,
Ny vud ain seose troggal e chione. Amongst us raise up his head.
Cha n’yrrys dou geddyn eh sneiagh It’s no wonder to me, to find it vexing,
My laghyn dy cheau ad cha moal To spend my days to spend so poorly,
Meeiteil wheesh dy reddyn neu-ghoaieagh Meeting so many improper things,
Myr sleih ass traa cooie cheet dyn theihll. Like anachronistic people coming into the world.
Rou traa da’n vyn Vooinjyr cheet marin Was there time for the tiny people to come with us,
As joinal dy hroggal bardoon And joining to raise a lament,
Tra honnick ad torcan frioagh Vannin When they saw the Mannin(an)’s heather smoke,
Goll jiarg harrish Rollick-y-dhoon. Going red over the Dhoon graveyard.
Thousaneyn jeh’n Vooinjyr hree lurgagh Thousands of the three legged people,
Va gyllagh lesh dobberan gheyre Were shouting with harsh mourning,
Dy rou Mannin ersooyi lesh yn liargagh That Mann(anan) was going downhill,
As ooilley shenn eiraght Vac Leaire. And all of Mac Lear’s ancient legacy.
Ta’n geurey feoayr fluiagh v’ayn my-leeaney The cold wet winter there was this year,
Rish boghtyn er ghellae dy croie Has dealt hard with the poor,
Dy beagh nauyn da shen Vannin gaas Creeney If Old Mannin happened to grow wise
Te dy liooar dy chur Keeayl da ny gwoiee. It’s enough to give sense to the geese.[1]
[1] According to Livy, geese warned the Romans of the approaching Gaulish army before the sacking of Rome in 387BC.
Yn aile va cha jesh ec sleih boghtey The poor people’s fire that was so nice,
Er Greebey er Sniauil as Barule, On Greeba, on Snaefell and Barrrule,
Te nish er y ghrunt er ny lostey Is now burning on the ground,
Ayns bodjallyn jaagh goll ersooyl. Gowing away in clouds of smoke.
Ta’n atchin yn frioghe as ny shuinyn The gorse, the heather and the rushes,
Goll naardey voish harr er gys heear Are being consumed from the East to the West,
Yn Ghailk as Phynodaree, Rushen, The Manx Language, and Phynodderee of Rushen,
Scoan yiou ad boayl fastee sy cheer. Will hardly find shelter in the country.
Ny earrooyn mooarey dy eeanlee The great number of birds that
Va coagey er Braaid ny frioghane Were croaking on the palteau of the blaeberries,
Cha bee fastee ny smoo cour ny skianee? Won’t there be shelter for winged things any more?
Ny thammag dy ollagh Boggane. Or a bush to hide a Buggane.
Tra va ny fadanee er jymsagh When the bumpkins had gathered,
Va’n ’aer er lheeiney lesh Kiauel The sky had filled with music,
Bardoonys a dobberan hrimshagh Mournful singing of sad mourning,
Voish scauryn How Rushen gys Sniauil. From the chasms of Rushen Howe to Snaefell.
Yn chenn Tarroo ushtey as yn Glashjan  The old Water-Bull and the Glashtan,
Cha bee fastee ny chour oc ny smoo There won’t be shelter any more for them,
Row rieau Iheid y’n eam er ny chlastyn Was such a call ever heard,
Near as honniek ad shenn Pherick Noo . Since they saw old Saint Patrick.
Lesh geayaghyn, lesh dewilys as sterrym. With winds, with cruelty and storm.
Smooar dy grogh niaghtyn tain dinsh How great the bad news we have to tell,
Eer shenn chabbil vaidjry Phurt Erin, Even the old wooden horses of Port Erin,
Tad gyllagh yn meillley ain reesht. They’re calling our mheilley again.
Ta nyn greeaghyn myr brishey ayns peeshyn Our hearts are as if breaking in pieces,
Ec whilleen’s ta goll ass nyn geeayl At so many who are leaving their senses,
Ooilley laadit fo feeaghyn as Keeshyn, All burdened with fees and taxes,
As geeck ny thousaneyn son geayl. And paying thousands for coal.
Foddee staamid shenn Vannin nish geeaghyn The stateliness of Old Mann(anan) can now show,
As gynsaghey creenaght nyn saie And teach our fill of wisdom,
Yn aile ain te losht er ny sleityn Our fire, it is burnt on the mountains,
As yn argid goll lesh y traie. And the silver going towards the shore.
My chronnee shiyn dellal cha barbagh If we discerned such barbaric dealing,
Rish boghtyn son laghyn foe'n ghrian Towards poor folk for days under the sun,
Ah treih son yn Vooinjyr hree lurgagh Alas for the three-legged people,
C’raad cheauys earishyn beayn. Where will (they) spend the ages of eternity?
Ta laa Mooar yn vargee molteyragh The great day of the decietful fair,
Ro-vennick cur sneih er nyn gree Too often vexes our hearts,
Tan Manninagh hene laa-ny-vairagh The Manxman himself, the following day,
Cha creeney as dooinney erbee. Is as wise as any man.