The House on the Hill

The House on the Hill

Ay! the farmhouse is shuttered an’ empty,
An’ the wans that lived theer is all gone;
No smook from the chimley goes curlin’,
For the days o’ that li’l crof’ is done.

 

No dog barks a half-warnin’ welcome;
No cat comes an’ stroogs roun’ me feet;
Norra cow nor a sheep in the fiel’s up;
Neither chickens nor ducks on the street.

 

An’ the win’ gives a sigh in the rowans,
An’ a pang strikes me through to me breas’,
For times goes – an’ th’owl things is passin’,
Yet th’owl things an’ th’owl ways seemed the bes’.

 

Now the river runs sad in the glen theer,
An’ the birds gives theer li’l lonely trills;
While Barrule seems to look down with sorra
On the tholtans spread over them hills.


stroogs – strokes
tholtans – ruined dwellings

(source: from This Purple-Misted Isle, Manx Poems by Kathleen Faragher (1957); photograph © Sam Hudson)

Bernadette Weyde

Bernadette Weyde

I'm a web designer, amateur historian and keen gardener and I enjoy bringing Manx history, folklore and poetry to a modern audience.


Tags assigned to this article:
kathleen faragherpoetry

Related Articles

Two Twilights

Mist on the fields, and a deepening summer twilight, Cattle passing homeward along the narrow lane; Lily-pools that gleam in

On Andreas Dunes

I met a brown rabbit Today on the dunes When the curlews were piping Their queer, lonely tunes. He sat

Lament of the Old Horse’s Ghost

Ye horses all, who may pass by This spot where rest my bones, Behold my head, which once was high,