Tag "poetry"

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On the Shore

Come an’ sit yerselves down, all you childher While I throw some more bons on the fire – An’ I’ll tell yer a tale o’ me chil’hood, While the win’ theer gits higher an’ higher. Pull the shutters across them

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On Tynwald Fair Day

Eighty-five I’ll be me nex’ birthday, Ay! – Eighty-five nex’ Tynwal’ Fair Day. I remember when I was a li’l wan How the neighbours was used to say Warra glister me mother had on her Gittin’ ready to go to

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My! My!

Ay! theer’s me on me way to the churchyard With the daffodils gripped in me han’; An’ me cough had all gone, an’ me ailments, Now the sunshine had come; it was gran’! An’ I thought as I passed the

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The Seven Kingdoms

“Have you ever seen seven kingdoms all in one day?” “Seven kingdoms?” says you, “Aw – get away!” “It’s true as I’m breathing, not a lie do I tell, Now let’s take ourselves up to the top of Snaefell.  

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Chibber-y-Wurra Water

My Mother lying weak and spent Cried out to me her daughter — “O for a drink of Mary’s Well, Sweet Chibber-y-Wurra water!” Among the meadows green and low I sought in every quarter, Till Lily Watson shewed to me

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The West Wind

Whither away, little journeying west wind? Why do you laugh as you skip down the hill? Linger awhile, for the day is but young yet Tell us your story, west wind, if you will. What did you see as you

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The Touch

We who have heard the fairies’ laughter peeling Through dim-lit hollows in the lonely hills, Have seen pale shadows through the deep glens stealing, Or followed in their track down mountain gills: We who have heard their low, sad music

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Kathleen Faragher’s Manx Words & Dialect Words

I really enjoy Kathleen Faragher’s work and have compiled this list of Manx words and Manx dialect words from 6 of her books. across – on the mainland aigh vie – good luck banya – milk bin-jean – junket bithag

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August on the Hills

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

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Angel of the Woods

She walks, white-gowned, amid the glades of fir Hushed by the music of the breeze among The fretted leaves, one bird her chorister, At hour of evensong.   Her robin sings upon a budding thorn His vesper hymn, while in

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