A li’l breeze stroog-stroogs through the bracken
As a bird from the gill theer takes wing,
An’ the hills is all purple an’ lovely;
Ay! fair shinin’ with heather an’ ling.
An li’l spithags o’ clouds sen’s theer shadders
Down the valley right out to the say,
While the gorse glints like li’l yaller futstools,
An’ the harebells is dancin’ away.
Then the sun sthrikes the walls o’ the tholtans,
An’ they seem to be lonely no more,
As though the wans from the pas’ had come back theer
With a scutch o’ childher an’ hens roun’ the dhure.
An’ the threes by the farm sthreet is sayin’,
An’ a sthream trickles down low an’ sweet,
While the air sthrokes yer head like a blessin’,
An’ the blackberries spreads out roun’ yer feet.
Then yer feel yerself all sort o’ peaceful;
Ay! far away from life’s throubles an’ ills;
An’ yer breathe a li’l prayer – jus’ that Heaven
Itself – will be like them theer hills.
stroogs – strokes
gill – a small glen
spithags – small things
say – sea
tholtans – ruined dwellings
dhure – door
threes – trees
(source: This Purple-Misted Isle, Manx Poems by Kathleen Faragher (1957); photo is of Sloc heather and gorse courtesy of Manx Wildlife Trust)