Poems

The Thram

The golden sunshine filled the room, To every corner stealing; It glanced on Charlotte's silver hair, And flashed along the ceiling.

It touched the dingy walls with gold, And painted all the china; The "rosy basins" on the shelf Grew rosier and finer.

The window high above the road Looked over field and meadow, To where the sun, fast rolling down, Left Scacafell in shadow.

And Charlotte placidly enjoyed, But gazed without emotion; Something was lacking, I could see, But what, I had no notion.

"The windhar on the stairs," she said, And now she showed elation; "There's where the THRAM is, an' the lights, An' all the 'Lectric Station!"

"An' all the folks as plain as plain, That's comin' in or goin'-- That's what I like," she said, "the thram An' all the lights a-glowin'!"

Where I Was Rarin' to

The little stream of Ballacowle. It tumbles down the Glen And hides beneath the lady-fern To sparkle out again-- Then plunges underneath the road To seek a devious way, Where lost in quarry refuse now, Its early cradle lay.

A roomy cradle once it was, O'er-arched with spreading trees; A tangled Paradise of flowers, Scarce touched by passing breeze, And here, among the primrose tufts, It wound its cheerful way, When, long ago, we wove our wreaths To Welcome in the May

On May Day Eve I wandered there, And, by the old plum tree, I found a bent and aged man Who gazed along the lea. His dress was of the loaghtan-brown, His hair was white as snow; And quietly he rested there And watched the streamlet flow.

"Good evening, friend," I gently said, "Good everin'," said he; I said "What do you here so late, Beneath our old plum tree?" "Good everin'," he said again, His voice was soft and low, "I came to put a sight down here, Where I was rarin' to."

He laid a bleached and withered hand Upon the cold grey wall That once was gable of the house, The house of Ballacowle-- Though little now remains to show Where once it stood so fair, And, but the plum tree lives to mark The garden that was there.

"I mind the day we rode to church, The hay was nearly teddin', The apple trees were dressed in pink As we came through Claghbeddin: We rode along the Cuckoo Field, The skies were blue and fair, And through the Croshag's miry lane, To Kirk Christ of Lezayre.

I mind th' oul' ancient Masthar well That lived at the Claghbeddin: He lent the horse and pillion fine To take us to our weddin'. I mind the dogs and childher too, That scampered to and fro, And pussy cats wisout no tails, Where I was rarin' to."

The sunset faded into gray; I heard the little stream, It seemed to mingle with his voice Like music in a dream. No longer could I see his face, But still he murmered low: "I came to put a sight once more Where I was rarin' to."

I heard the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day. On a merry, merry morning in the month of May. They were hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din-- An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in! Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin, Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring; Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding-- An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in!

They were hammering their barrels in the cooper's cave, Sending out the chips to meet the brimming wave. Working in the hollows of the Cushlin hill, Turning out their dandy boats an' tackle still. Clink-a-link, etc.

I heard them in the cave behind the waterfall, Merry voices echoed by the rocky wall; While the bay was covered by the chips that flew. And every chip became a boat with all its crew. Clink-a-link, etc.

Oh, lucky is the morning in the month of May, When you hear the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day, Hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din-- For they know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in! Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin, Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring; Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding, They know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in.

The Phynodderee

Ho! Ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Trainman Tree. I once was lord of a fairy clan, But I loved a lass in the Isle of Man; Her eyes were like the shallows of the mountain stream, Her hair was like the cornfield's golden gleam Her voice was like the ringdove's, soft and slow, Her smile was like the sunbeam's--come and go; But alas and alack-a-day! The jealous fairy maids stole my love away. And now I'm all alone in the Tramman Tree. Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day!

Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I was once a prince in the fairy land, But I failed to come at the king's command; His wrath was like the thunder in the mountain gills, His eyes were like the lightning on the lone dark hills; His voice was like the raging of the boiling tide, As he hurled me down to the earth to bide, And alas and alack-a-day! The whole night long I must work away Till daylight sends me up to the Tramman Tree, Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day!

Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I fetched the stone to Tholt-y-Will; I saved the sheep on the snow-clad hill; I saw the storm was coming while the farmer snored; I drove the sheep before me while the Howlaa roared, I folded them in safety beneath the creg, And hunted over Snaefell for the loaghtan beg; But alas and alack-a-day. A witch she was, and she would not stay Till daylight sent me up to the Tramman Tree, To swing by myself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day!

Ho! ho! the Phynodderee! Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. I threshed the corn in the lonely night, And swept the house in the still moonlight. I watched the sleeping haggart while the dog took rest, And drove away the witches that dared molest; I milked the cows at dawning and eased their heads, And soothed the patient horses in their tired beds, But alas and alack-a-day! The farmer thought I worked because I wanted pay And left a coat and breeches for the poor Phynodderee; So his lassie cannot see him in the Tramman Tree Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree. Alas and alack-a-day.

The Loaghtan Beg

"Oh! Is it a sheep or a witch," quoth he; "Is it only a loaghtan beg? Or am I awake or asleep," quoth he, "Or am I the hairy Phynodderee That started to catch the meg."

"I chased her over Barooil," quoth he, "And along the side of Clagh Owre; And three times round Snaefell, like fire went she, With a screech at the hairy Phynodderee That turned the night's milk sour."

"I have raced the mountain lambs," quoth he, "And seen them run like deer; But I never seen wan like yondher," quoth he, "That could run like the hairy Phynodderee, She'll not be no right wan I fear."

"I've seen many a sheep in my day," quoth he, "From the Calf to the Point of Ayre; But never a wan like that," quoth he, "Which nearly done the Phynodderee"-- "Man veg! you have brought me a hare!"

Sweet Etty of Rhenwee

O gaily sing the birds among The woods of Ballaharry, And brightly shines the gorse along The lanes of Ballavarry; But I must go and leave them all To sail upon the sea, Unless you say one little word, Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.

My father he will go his ways And never heed or bother, But Oh! My heart is failing when I think upon the mother. But I must leave them all and go To sail upon the sea, Until you say that little word, Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.

We played together, boy and girl, Among the gorse and heather, And mine it was, in storm and shine, To shield you from the weather. But I must go away for all To sail upon the sea, Unless you say that little word, Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.

O golden shines the gorse along The lanes of Ballavarry, And sweetly sing the birds among The woods of Ballaharry. But never came the Eirey home That sailed upon the sea, For never could she say that word, Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.

The Passing of the Fayries

"An' was there a dhrop between us?" That's what they're sayin' still. An' never a dhrop was there at all, But a crowd of wans in the road for all, An' sthrivin' up the hill.

The dawn was barely sthreakin' An' a sup o' rain doin' in; But liftin' as the day grew on, Like dhryin' up when the night was gone, With a scutch o' risin' win'.

An' here was these wans comin', An' creepenin' up the side, With a surt of murmerin', wailin' soun' That seemed to be risin' all aroun', Like the soun' of the weary tide.

There was oul', an' young, an' childher, All bended under loads; With beds an' crocks, an' spuds, an' grips, An' spinnin' wheels, an' taller dips, All filin' up the roads.

From Earey Beg an' Earey Moar, Over the broken bridge; Over the pairk at Earey Glass, By Balla'himmin and up Rhenass, An' all along the ridge.

An' toilin' up Bearey Mountain, With that wailin', sighin' soun' As if their hearts were goin' a-breakin', The for their last leave they were takin', Wherever they were boun.'