Yet haply should the search be vain. For that I am not worthy — you are coming: Heaven holds you promised! Karran, Cain, Kewish, Skillicorn, revealed the absolute summing Of cherished hopes. Nor lacking you of scholarship To guide the subtle harmonies soft-flowing From rugged outward-seeming lip, By vulgar minds not relished, all unknowing Of gentle arts. Trench deep within the soil That bore you fateful: Be nervous, soaked In dialect colloquial, retaining The native accent pure, unchoked With cockney balderdash. Then shut the tholthan.
Strike the lyre, Toward that proud shore your face reluctant turning; With Keltic force, with Keltic fire, With Keltic tears, let every string be burning. And use the instrument that we have wrought, Hammered on Saxon stithies, to our thought Alien, unapt, but capable of modes Wherein the soul its treasured wealth unloads. And, for the wayward thing is lax, Capricious, guard against the insidious changing Of pitch, that makes more tense, or slacks Our diatonics. Matters not, If arbitrary, when or where one single jot. But come, come soon, or else we slide To lawlessness, or deep-sea English soundings, Absorbent, final, in the tide Of Empire lost, from homely old surroundings, Familiar, swept.
O excellent babe, arise, And, ere a decade fall from forth the skies, Unto our longing hearts be born, Cain, Karran, Kewish supreme, supremest Skillicorn! The dew-damp of a hundred years hath quenched the lonely hearth, The feudal pomp of gone-by days moulders with crumbling earth; The mountain blast hath borne the foam from off the mountain stream, And wreathed it round the wasted towers that gloom in the moonbeam.
A vision of the past returns. The hearth, now black and cold, Is blazing bright, while ring around the laugh and song of old; There are fair maids, and bright-eyed boys, and lips that sweetly smile; The war-deeds of our sires are told, who fought for our loved Isle, And there a bard with silver hair sings the bold gathering song, Till the fire of light in every face burns steady, stern, and strong; There is a shout on every lip, a deed in every eye, And a hundred high and hoary hills give back the patriot cry!
Whose march in light was like a crag from some tall mountain riven. Or like the eagle when he swoops resistless from the heaven. Where are the heart and eye of fire, which knew nor fear nor rest. And they have left no trace behind, save those storm-beaten walls, Beneath whose base, with echoes harsh, the wave of Ocean falls, Deserted are the halls, save when, in his lone wanderings, The falcon swoops from his height awhile to rest his weary wings.
Up with the lug and let her run Before the wind and tide; The gannets plunge, the gulls keep watch, The herring shoal is wide. Oh, the herring, boys, the herring, Oh! It was the custom of the Manx fishermen to join in prayer before shooting their nets. The hill of the rising day. Hush, little darling, the daisies you love Under the stars now lie sleeping; Hush thee, ah!
Angels are guarding thee, God guards us all. Hush, little darling, my blossom, my dove! Is it the night wind thou fearest? Hush thee, ah, hush thee, my dearest! Mother is near thee, sweet; what can befall? Yet some did love him not, because His love-song ran in perfect harmony, Because he knew subtly to interweave Those undertones of truth, those discord strains Of native coarseness with his melody, And dared to write the language of thy sons In all its nakedness of common speech.
They loved him not because they could not grasp The length and breadth, and depth and height of love Foursquare in all its passionate embrace Of native life. And would they know the beauty in his life, Their love must be like his — a perfect love. Let storm-winds rejoice, And lift up their voice, No danger our homes can befall; Our green hills and rocks Encircle our flocks, And keep out the sea like a wall.
Our Island, thus blest, No foe can molest; Our grain and our fish shall increase; From battle and sword Protecteth the Lord, And crowneth our nation with peace. Lhig dorrinyn bra, Troggal seose nyn goraa, As brishey magh ayns ard arrane; Ta nyn groink aalin glass, Yn keayn cummal ass, As coadey lught-thie as shiollane. The dogs in the haggard Are barking aloud, At the moon, as she struggles From under the cloud.
Uprise then, my shepherds, With haste let us go Where my sheep are all buried Deep under the snow. Then up rose those shepherds, With haste they did go Where the sheep lay all buried Deep under the snow; They sought them with sorrow, They sought them with dread, And they found them at last; — But the sheep were all dead! Carranes, Sandals of raw hide formerly worn by the Manx peasants. And do you want to know, my boys, The for 1 I am so glad?
We sat beneath the trammon tree, 3 Her little hands in mine; Her blackbird sang a melody That sounded all divine. All bent with age and care, they mused In pensive mood and sad.
A Book of Manx Poetry
That all these years no Heir had come To make their household glad. Glen Wyllin, in Kirk Michael. Cronk Urleigh in Michael, i. The Castle clock had struck the midnight hour, The warder slept upon the high watch-tower, And all was still on land and sea. The soldiers sat around the guard-room fire, And heard the Minstrel play upon the lyre Proud songs of war and bravery.
The music ceased, all dim the cresset burned, Towards the secret door all eyes were turned Where glared the eyes of Moddey Doo. Or dog or devil, I defy the foe! In breathless silence sat the company To think what might befall, when suddenly With hideous yells the air was rent. At last, all pale, their comrade hastened back With broken sword and bleeding head, alack! His face and limbs convulsed with pain. They gave him spirit and they gave him ale, But all their efforts were of no avail — Struck dumb, he never spake again!
To-day the dwellers near St. Therefore tarry, tarry, tarry To the tune of Traa dy liooar! Port y Shee, Harbour of Peace. Ben My Chree, Woman of my Heart. Traa dy liooar, Time enough. Thou, Lord, dost rule the raging of the sea, When loud the storm and furious is the gale; Strong is thine Arm, our little barks are frail; Send us Thy help; remember Galilee. Our wives and children we commend to Thee; For them we plough the land and plough the deep, For them by day the golden corn we reap, By night the silver harvest of the sea.
We thank Thee, Lord, for sunshine, dew, and rain, Broad-cast from Heaven by Thine Almighty hand — Source of all life, unnumbered as the sand — Bird, beast, and fish; herb, fruit, and golden grain. O Bread of Life! The Original is the Welsh Song. Graves; Manx Translation by J. O Land of my fathers, O Land of my love, Dear mother of minstrels who kindle and move, And heroes who, holding your fame beyond all, For freedom their life blood let fall. O but my heart is with you! And as long as the sea Your bulwark shall be To Mannin my heart shall be true!
And as long as the sea Your bulwark shall be To Mannin my tongue shall be true! And as long as the sea Your bulwark shall be To Mannin my tongue shall be true. O Heer my Hennayryn; O Halloo my ghraih! Voir villish dy vardyn ta griennagh dty leih; As dunnallee chum dhyts dty voyrn as ardghoo, Dys gheayrt fuill nyn mioys assdoo: O Halloo ny Sleityn! His foes traduced him living, His foes traduced him dead, With hatred unforgiving, Our hand, our heart, our head. What road are you taking, my Ihiannoo veg villish, 2 And where will you go at the end of the day?
One of the Seven Sleepers. Our old Island Kingdom enthroned on the deep, Our Celtic Inheritance, long may we keep; With customs and laws that our forefathers gave, Unsullied, unblemished, and free as the wave. Then stand up, ye sons of the Vikings, and hold Your freedom and honour as dearer than gold; So Rulers and People together shall sing, In peace and agreement may God save our King!
The cushag flower, in a stormy hour, Shines brighter for the gloom; So kindly deeds, like wayside weeds, May shine when troubles loom. Where the golden flowers Have fairy powers To gladden our hearts with their grace; And in Vannin Veg Veen, In the valleys green, The cushags have still a place. Oh, dark is the daylight and darker the sky, And small are the snowflakes, but closely they lie: Then up rose the shepherd and sadly did say: Oh, haste ye then, shepherds, get lanterns and men, For the snowflakes are piling on mountain and glen.
For the poor dogs, lamenting, lay down in their woe, But their cries could not waken the lambs in the snow. The first day came from the bitter north — Was there ever so cold a Spring?
But the sun shone out for an hour at noon, And we heard the cuckoo sing! The next day woke with a cheerless blast And a sky that was gray with snow, But we heard the corncrake tune his pipe In the meadow down below! The third day sobbed with a dismal rain, The very trees looked numb, But the swallows arrived on the old roof-tree, And we knew that the summer would come!
Lone little tholtan, left by the wayside, Where have they wandered that loved thee of old? Where are the children that played by the fireside? Poor little chiollagh, 2 forlorn and cold! All that was homelike, secluded, and tender, Stripped of its sheltering thatch is seen. Why have they left thee so drear and forsaken, Was it misfortune, or sadder unthrift?
Was there a stone of the Church in thy building Secretly working to send them adrift? Was it the dream of a new Eldorado Lured them away with its roseate hue? Only to find the green hills of the distance Bare as Barooil to the nearer view. Come winds of Autumn and cover it gently, Poor little hearth-stone, deserted and bare; Cover it softly with leaves from the woodlands, Lap it away from the cold, bleak air.
Hasten the day when those desolate gables, Holding their secret of failure and dearth, Gently shall sink to their grave by the wayside, Hidden at last in the warm, kind earth. O Mona ma Chree! Dear Mona ma Chree! For who shall break this crystal cup From strife shall have no rest; But who shall keep this crystal cup, With peace he shall be blest. So rare a thing, so fair a thing. Is peace for ever blest. Too rare a thing, too fair a thing, To hide in gloomy caves.
A little child came running by And whispered in his ear: The little child ran on before, And Magnus followed swift; He found the place of ancient peace, Where he might leave his gift. So rare a thing, so fair a thing, To guard by day and night. And now where stand those churches twain On Ballafletcher strand, May peace and plenty still be found, Through all the pleasant land.
Though storms may ravage overhead, And clash their pealing bells; Yet men may walk in peace below If peace within them dwells. Ballafletcher, a farm on the ancient Abbey Lands of Braddan, on which the two Braddan Churches are built. Magnus, King of Mann. Autumn and whispering leaves: Soft twilight fall; Sunset and gathered sheaves, Gold over all!
Poet and Patriot, strong, Tender and wise, All notes were in thy song, Mirth in thine eyes. Not in some larger land, whose wide domains Could never all be known and loved by me As old familiar scenes; But thou art all my own! Above the blackness of Barrule The full Moon lifts her face, and seems To ponder every crag and pool In Aldyn of the hundred streams:.
Slowly the splendours dwindle, slowly die, The darkness deepens. Faint as from the verge Of the vast emptiness of wave and sky Come whispers of the surge. And some are light and easy, And some are heavy and spilled, But as the stack grows greater It is my life I build. Friend, whom in far-off cities fate detains. Do you not sometimes think of your own land, Your foam-ringed Island sweet with western rains, Where gorse and fuchsia, by the soft air fanned.
Beneath her covering wings your heart shall bide. I know, I know: A rendering into verse of W. And following darkness came the rest Then God gives man to comfort him — His peace to those of troubled breast, His sleep to those of wearied limb. Old, old and gray, bowed down with years, Her tattered garments wet with dew, Her ancient visage wet with tears, She rose upon my startled view. As thus she came I heard her sigh: Despised, abandoned thus to die, By those who should have cherished me. The sun had set; a shadowy veil Crept westward over dreem and pairk; The moon had spread her silver sail, And drifted glorious up the dark.
Behind, dunes of sand rose to hide the land, By playful breezes channelled and swirled; They were clothed with a greeny-yellowy bent, And withered weeds discoloured and curled; And I breathed the sea-air; and inhaled the sea-scent, And thought myself come to the edge of the world. My love, are we chained to this drab, dismal town, Have we bidden our Mother good-bye? O to lay all the strenuous history down, To see the dear face and then die! My bonnie Willie Clague, Are you not a captain brave, Arm and heart bent to achieve Glory or the grave?
Down at Surby roads, There you fly with lifted spear; How the waving of your hands Fills the fowls with fear! My bonny Willie Clague, Are you not a sailor bold, Skilled to cheat the cruel waves By stern tempests rolled? Down at Surby brook, There you float your gallant bark; But her voyages all cease When the day grows dark.
Share goll dy Ihie fegooish shibber na girree ayns Ihiastynys! Better to go to bed supperless than to get up in debt! A liar will not be believed though he speaks the truth! Raad erbee cheauys oo eh, hassys eh!
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Whatever circumstances may come, I stand! Ta meir frioosagh ny share na toghyr-poosee. Thrifty fingers are better than a marriage portion. Bee shin unnane jeh uinnagyn glen Yee dy vod yn ghloyr echey soilshean ny trooid. Ta beeal tutler poagey-scrieu jouyll. Peace is the well from which the stream of joy runs.
Thy will be done on the earth as it is in heaven. As are we forgiving to those who are committing trespasses us against. Forbes, Edward, Life of. By Wilson and Geikie. A Manx Wedding and other Songs. Sea Weeds and Heath Flowers. Thekla, and other Poems. Poems on Several Subjects. Historical Account of the Isle of Man. The Isle of Man Times.
His grandmother was a Stowell, of Ballastowell, Maughold, and he was also connected with that other old Manx family, the Cosnahans. Robert Brown will be best remembered as the father of the Rev. Brown, the great Manx poet. Brown says he preached a sermon in Manx Gaelic every Sunday, and with these discourses he took even more pains than with his English.
Born in New Bond Street, Douglas. Educated partly in the parish school at Braddan and partly by his father. In he won the second prize for a poem, the first prize having been won by F. He secured several valuable successes at both the College and later at Oxford. In he obtained the highest academic honour, that of a Fellowship at Oriel.
Smashwords – A Manx Tale – a book by Paul Alan Fahey
In he was appointed second master of Clifton College, where he spent nearly 30 years. He repaired to his beloved homeland in , and took up residence in Ramsey. A bust in marble, carved by a Manx sculptor, Swinnerton, stands in the hall of the Douglas Public Library. Later, his letters to a number of friends were also collected and published. Although a great quantity of his verse is in the Manx dialect, he is increasingly being recognised as taking high rank among the masters of English poetic literature. No one but a Manxman could have written the charming lines on page His first tutor was a Miss Stowell.
He spent most of his earlier years at the home of his grandmother in Ballaugh, and developed his love of natural history pursuits there. At 16, he entered Edinburgh University as a medical student, but his leanings were to natural history. In , he investigated the natural history of Mann.
In the following year he sailed from Douglas in a timber brig to Norway, where he studied marine life. In he dredged the sea round the coasts of his own country. He visited France, Switzerland, Germany, and Algeria, studying natural history, and lectured in London and other University cities. In he was appointed naturalist to H.
Beacon, engaged in surveying work in the Levant. In the following year, at the age of 39, he was elected to the Professorship of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh — one of the highest positions a scientist can fill — which was the ambition of his life. The tasks which he took up were too numerous and severe for his delicate constitution; he worked too hard, and illness overtook him, and he died at Edinburgh after a few days illness. He was buried in Dean Cemetery in that city.
His memory is commemorated by a marble bust in the Tynwald Court and a tablet in St. In his short busy life he wrote numerous works, some of which may be studied in the Douglas Public Library. He was the son of Joseph Gill, one of the ancient family of Gill of the parish of German. His mother was a daughter of Vicar-General Thomas Stephen. He was born in Sicily, where his father held an appointment. He studied law with his second cousin, Sir James Gell, and entered into partnership with him in He edited the Manx Statutes from to , a very laborious work.
A thoroughly patriotic Manxman, he used to take pride in the fact that he had only pure Manx blood in his veins.
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He will be remembered by his countrymen as the co-editor with Dr. Clague, and his brother, W. Gill, of the volumes which contain their very fine collection of Manx National Songs and Music. She says that her Insular poems were written in early life, and enshrine all the golden memories of youth: Wild Harp of Mona! He was born at Cornaa, in Maughold, where his father was a farmer. When he entered the Royal Navy in , in his twenty-second year, he knew only the Manx language. So great, however, was his natural ability and his perseverance, that he rose, in the short period of seven years, to the position of master carpenter of the whole British Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea — a post of great importance.
He acquired a considerable knowledge of science. He also invented the pneumatic tube. In he retired to Mann, and became a schoolmaster at Ballasalla. After making a survey of the coasts of Mann for the British Government, he, in , visited America, being chiefly engaged in prospecting, at great risk to his life, in New Granada. He surveyed the isthmus of Panama, and submitted, in , to the United States Government and to various learned societies a scheme for a canal without locks, which was to join the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.
He was the first to assert that the oceans were upon a level, and up to this time no canal had been projected without locks. Her father was the Rev. John Nelson, Rector of Bride. She had true poetic inspiration. From the fact of her early death, and from internal evidence in her poems, one is led to believe that she was a victim of consumption.
The harrowing knowledge of an early doom might well, in a woman of feeling and genius, induce a deep-rooted and constant sadness. And this feeling is constantly apparent in her poems. I have seen The canker in the rose — the blossom fade — The lily severed from its shielding nest — The violet plucked — the humble daisy crushed — The gay young carolling bird pierced on the wing — The gorgeous butterfly, upon a flower Sipping its meed of sweetness, shivered Into a mass of atoms — and can I Marvel at the brief date of earthly joys? He was chaplain to and the confidant of James the Seventh Earl of Derby, and tutor to his eldest son.
He was interred in the centre of St. To judge from the Latin inscription on his tomb, he was a witty prelate. Died 30th May, He published from a Liverpool Press — that of G. From internal evidence in the poems, I judge that he must have been a native of Mann. Brown , belonged to the ancient family of the Stowells of Lonan, but he was born in Douglas. He became one of the greatest divines Mann has produced.
He had an intimate knowledge of the classical languages, and is said to have been a more eloquent preacher than his eloquent son, who became Canon of Salford. He established the first Sunday-school in Mann, in Lonan parish, in the year He wrote many works in both Manx and English, and corrected the edition of the Manx New Testament. He walked the greater part of the way from Castletown to Peel. He wrote concerning his walk by Tynwald Hill: He early entered the Army, joining the 20th Regiment, then in the Peninsula.
He afterwards went to India, and thence about the year to St. Helena, where his regiment guarded the great Napoleon till his death in It is interesting to note, by the way, that the Governor of St. Helena — which he re-visited in — that he regarded Napoleon with the greatest affection. Oft have I gazed upon this wondrous man.
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Himself a sealed book, unread the while. On the departure of his regiment from St. Helena, after the death of Napoleon, he left the Army and returned to his native land. In return he received a beautiful diamond and emerald ornament. A selection covering three centuries of poetry from the Isle of Man, created by the future Director of the Manx Museum, William Cubbon. Having been deeply involved in the Manx cultural revival through his work with the likes of A.
Cubbon hoped that the book would:. There is little doubt that Cubbon was the best-placed person to compile this book as his knowledge of the literature of the Isle of Man was unsurpassed. As well as effectively being responsible for the creation of the Manx national library and archives at the Manx Museum, he was the author of the monumental Bibliography of the Literature of the Isle of Man. However, the focus of the book on giving an idea of national sentiment to young people means that there is a tendency to focus on shorter works written in simple English while avoiding any contentious topics.
As the careful selections of T. A Book of Manx Poetry. Abridged, it runs as follows: Traditional The following is doubtless a fragment of an ambitious Epic or Saga belonging to a very early period of Manx history. Vast clouds full floating from the west Were seen, like Billows dreadful, as I ween. Bishop Rutter Let the world run round, Let the world run round, And know neither end nor station. Edward Shimmin Were all the beauties of the East Drawn out before my sight, They could not move my constant breast, Or give my eye delight. William Wordsworth The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, Even when they rose to check or to repel Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn Just limits: Robert Brown Island of mountains steep and bare!
Wood Land of the generous and free! Esther Nelson Beautiful dreams! Esther Nelson My Island home! Forbes Hurrah for the dredge, with its iron edge, And its mystical triangle, And its hided net with meshes set Odd fishes to entangle! Forbes A night-sky over head: Boys Will Be Boys. The View from 16 Podwale Street. All I Want for Christmas. Too Long Among the Dead.
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