"Hallo Dusty! Hallo Grizel!Fetch the sheep" the master cries,"Fetch them from the Island pastureQuick, before the daylight dies!"
Hurling headlong down the meadow,Almost swimming through the grass,Dusty-foot and gray GrizeldaLike a hurricane they pass.
Neck and neck the water reaching,In they plunge with shrieks of joy;Every task a new-found pastime,All the world their daily toy.
See them cleave the sunset ripplesHeading each a widening way,Landing, shake their eager bodiesIn a mist of diamond spray.
Silent now with great endeavour,Working round their fleecy charge,All the silly sheep collectingTo the gently shelving marge.
Hitherward with careful guidingComes the convoy safe to land—Dusty-foot and gray GrizeldaFlopping, panting on the strand.
"Collies? Aye, they're surely clever,Faithful too, and wondrous wise;But for all that," says the master,"Give me still my little Skyes."
John the Priest of Corna daleLate crowned with scholar's bays;Now sent to teach a rustic flock,Had cursed his dreary days.
Far on the slopes of North BarruleThe Corna valley lies;And far remote the lonely keeilThat seems so near the skies.
So few and simple were the folkAnd scattered through the vale—What honour should a scholar findIn savage Corna dale?
Now John the Priest he laid him downUpon his pallet bare;And John he heard or dreamed he heardSoft voices in the air.
"Glory to God" they sang once moreAs heralds from on high;And John he rose or dreamed he rose,But nought could he espy.
Gray sheets of mist were rolling up,And pouring through the vale;When through a rift shone steps of gold—From Heaven to Corna dale.
And John he saw, or thought he saw,Or dreamed he thought he saw,His Master on those shining steps,And bowed himself in awe.
"My Corna sheep are dear to meAs any in the fold,My Corna dale is near to meAs Lebanon of old."
"Thine is the work to save these sheep,Thy glory let it be,For every soul in Corna daleThou, John, wilt answer me!"
The cloud uplift: the sun sprang upAnd sparkled through the vale;A score of pearly smoke-wreaths roseTo Heaven from Corna dale.
Then John the Priest stretched forth his handsAnd blessed the rising sun,And blessed the simple folk around,And taught them one by one.
No book nor scrip could there be found;But on rough slabs of rockHe cut and graved as best he mightThe lessons for his flock.
And that himself should ne'er forgetHis vision in the vale,He carved—"Of all the sheep is JohnThe Priest in Corna dale."
Far on the slopes of old BarruleLone lies the ruined Keeil,And there the words of John the PriestIn Runes are living still.
Grip me savadge, Miss Geargie,An' heis me up in bed,An' you can be radin' them texesThe while I reddy me head.
Can ye see me hanksher, Miss Geargie?In the bed it's like it's los'.Aw well! the couth of the winter!Me legs is like sticks of fros'.
An' the rots is scraerpin', scraerpin'!Aw, it's time poor Kate was took—No, no, I'll not have no firin'For I cannot suffer the smook.
An' well—Are ye theer, Miss Geargie?I was dhramin' a dhrame in the night,When the win's took rest from their noisin'An' the say was middlin' quite.
An' the Lord Himself come downAn' stud beside the bed,An' with thremblin' fear I heard Him speak:"Come urrov theer," He said.
"Come urrov theer, Kate Cowle," He said."An' go you up on high,For such as you that's oul' and blindThere's mansions in the sky."
An' through the roof an' through the cloudsLike sthrailin' through a ford,An' singin' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, whileThe waves around us roared.
An' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, still we sangUp to the great White Throne—When suddently the Light went outAn' I was here alone!
Are ye plentiful in pins, Miss Geargie,Them laps for me head is tore;Well, good everin'—You'll be rewahded;An' plaze pull to the door.
An' Glo—ry for ever Glo—ryAn' a Light for the blind to see—An' a lil bit of pudden, Miss Geargie,If Mayry will spare it for me."
A cooish, a kiss, an' a whisper,A sooryin' summer's day;Then work an' childher an' botherThe ress of the way.
Some takes the road by the Chappal,An' some houls on by the Church,An' some falls down by the wayside,Lef' all in the lurch.
I'm used on the Chappal for all—It's homelier like in the dark,But himself was took at the Pazon,An' larnt for Parish Clerk.
They're coming to see me reglar—Church wans an' Chappal wans too;An' I'm not sayin' no ill of neither—It's juss how we've grew.
The Church wans is middlin' free,An' passin' the time o' day,An' Church was in before the Chappal,As th' oul people say.
The Chappal wans is high, though,More prouder an' wearin' falls,An' the power of fine discoorsin'Thass at them when they calls.
But Church houls out her arrumsFor every chile that's born;An' it's Her that puts the blessin'On the marriage morn.
When the work an' bother is over,An' childher have left us to roam,Like a tandhar oul' nursing motherThe Church brings us home.
An' then whether Church or Chappal,Or fell by the way—we must come;For without never makin' no difference,The Church brings us Home.
What road are you taking my Ihiannoo veg villish,And where will you go at the end of the day?We are taking the road to the Glen of the TwilightAnd 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is showing the way.Where the Fayries are weaving the dreams for our pillowAnd lighting the candles that burn in the sky;Where 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is swaying the willowAnd blackbirds are calling, Oie-vie, oie-vie!
And what will you do in the Glen of the Twilight,When 'Cadlag the Sleeper' has found you a nest?We'll play with the roses the Fayries will bring usAnd murmur of waters will lull us to rest.Where the Fayries are weaving the dreams for our pillowAnd rocking the cradle where softly we'll lie;Where 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is swaying the willowAnd childher are nodding, Oie-vie, oie-vie.
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, forlorn and cold!
Mutely thy gables are standing asunder,Rafterless, ragged, the ruin between!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 buildingSecretly working to send them adrift?
Was it the dream of a new EldoradoLured them away with its roseate hue?Only to find the green hills of the distanceBare 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.
I was down alone in the Moaney,Nobody else was near,When my name was goin' a'callin'Low an' sof' an' clear.None was I seein' aroun' me,Never a face of clay;An' my name was goin' a'callin'Jus' at the close of day.
The childher it's like were callin',Wantin' you they'd beFor a twilight play in the haggartUnder the tramman tree.
None of the childher was near me,Gone to their homes they were;An' my name was goin' a'callin'Over the Moaney there.
Daddy it's like was callin'Wantin' your help awhile,Dhrivin' the sheep he would beOver beyond the stile.
Daddy was gone to the mountain,I saw him against the sky,An' my name was goin' a'callin'Like a whisper passin' by.
There's Them that's sometimes callin'Low in th' everin' hour,An' if you give Them answerThey have you in their power.A voice when the night is fallin',A whisper on the air,An' seekin' to draw you to themDown in the Moaney there.
Mammy the voice a'callin',Callin' my name to meWas his that long is lyingCold in the cruel sea.You'll lave Goodbye with my DaddyAn' lay me on my bed—Chile veen, chile veen, what ails thee!I answered it, she said.
What brings you over the hill to-night?What makes you look so treih?Are you hearing soun's in the win' to-night?Or seeing what we can't spy?
"You're snug an' warm down here, my son,In your thatch-house by the shore.But there's wan lyin' out in the storm, my son,That I think on more an' more."
"Will I take you home to the hill, to-night?Or will you stop till morn?You shall sleep in the children's bed to-night,And take the road at dawn."
"I would gladly stop down here, my son,An' with the childher bide;But there's wan lyin' out on the hill, my son.Is callin' me to his side."
"As I came over the hill to-nightHis voice spoke in mine ear—'Are thou coming soon, my widowed wife,We are snugly housed up here.'"
"'The turf grows over our heads, my wife,The gorse is black and charred;But we lie as warm up here, my wife,As any in Maughold Church-yard.'"
"So its time I was takin' the road, my son,But bide you where you be;It's a road I must travel alone, my son,An' he will be waiting for me."
"But mind you now what I say, to-night—When you find my senseless clay:You'll take me home to the hill that night,To the grave beside the way."
"You'll lay me there in the gorse, my son,Where he's waiting for me still;I could not rest in my churchyard graveAn' him lyin' out on the hill."
D'you min' them oul' Oie'll Voirreys with the hollanall in berriesAn' the carvels goin' a singin' on the night?An' Tommy Danny Quilliam an' quare oul' Juan IlliamWith cannles in their fisses for the light?
An' marchin' up the aisle, singin' sollum all the whileWith all the parish listenin' to them there?An' Pazon smilin' cheerful, but watchin' very keerful,To keep the wans reminded where they were?
There was teens of cannles blazin', an' all the people gazin',With Pazon's wans so studdy in the pew.An' Church all titivated an' tasty decorated,An' tossed up middlin' stylish at them too.
An' Billy Boyde the Bithig an' Johnny Bob the Kithag,Them wans was good thremendjus for the chune.Pretendin' at a loss, jus' to give the choir a toss,But sthrampin' to be at it very soon.
Wan time that I was workin' away at Cooil-ny-Eairkan,Gettin' holly with the res' for the day;So beat I was with slumber, an' carvels such a number,That down upon the flure I slipped, an' lay.
When I wakened by an' by, the moon was in the sky,An' all had gone an' lef me on the flure!The freckened urrov massy! I sweated like any lassie,Nor dursn't move an inch to rache the dhure!
For everywhere behoul' ye, black shaddas were aroun' me,Till I was jus' gone fainted with the fear.An' thrue as I am talkin' I saw them shaddas walkin'Like keepin' time with chunes I couldn't hear.
Though bein' Christmas mornin', or near enough the dawnin',I might have knew they couldn't harm at all.For isn't that night holy, that brought the Babe so lowly,The very bases doin' obedience in their stall?
But there I lay the freckened! Till one big shadda beckened,Aw, then I cleant like lightning urrov that!An comin' up the aisle, was Pazon, with a smile—"Dear me," said he, "I had forgot me hat."
On a fine summer day the misthress would say:"Them windies is scandalous mucky,"But if Kitty an' you will agree to consent"For to clane them, we'll think ourselves lucky!"It wasn' the work we was wantin' to shirkWhen the windies was goin' a rubbin',But feelin' the saf' on each side of the paneTo be watched by the other gel scrubbin'.
An' still an' for all, there wasn' no callFor Kitty to stan' on the lather,When Johnny an' me had agreed to consentFor to go for to clane them togather,So "Kitty," says I, "'Tis time for to thry"For to go for to polish them windies,"An' the misthress," says I, "Says 'Jus you be spry"'An' not to be makin' no shindies.'"
For Kitty an' me was used for to beThe wans that was doin' the clanin',Not like in them houses in towns where you're tookIf out of the windie you're lanin',But "Kitty," says I, "I'm thinkin'," says I,"Of them berries you're wantin' to gather."An' safeter," says I, "When a mansarvant's by"For him to be out on the lather."
So Kitty give place with agraueon her faceAn' look her revenge on the kettles,An' only I cleant middlin' handy from theerShe'd have had me threw out in the nettles."An' Kitty," says I, "Don't go for to thry"For to take for to give me no imperince,"Or its likely," says I, "If the masthar come by,"He'll be havin' ye took for intimperince."
An' well to be sure, there was polish dy-liooarGoin' a usin' that day on the windies,When Johnny begun for to come for to goFor to take for to work with no shindies.For smilin' he wass, an' wilin' he wass,An' talkin' the gentle an' aisy—Till th' everin' come down, an' the misthress come roun'—An' she said we was Scandalous Lazy!
What are ye shoutin' Lizzie? I'm comin' soquick as I can,An' what call have you to be talkin' with everypassin' young man!The King! What King is there on ye—chut—capers—an' up these hills!Aw, well! Is it raelly the King, though? An' mein my dishabills!
Give us a heis up the hedge, gel—we'll be seein'handy from theer,To think of the King of Englan' comin' all theway up here!I'd like to have put a clean brat on me, but Ihadn't no time at all,For I come so quick as I could the moment Iheerd you call.
I min' they was used to be sayin' this falla wasmiddlin' wile,An' lashins of gool spent at him since he was alump of a chile.But th' oul' Queen nussed him clavver, and givehim scope for to run,The knowing that he'd come to when he wouldhave had his fun.
Aw the Lady she was! Ma word! Th' oul' Queednthat is gone,That was sittin' quite's an earwig, doin' judgmentfrom her throne,An' the high wans goin' a ecutchin' if they didn'be mindin' themselves,And an eye for the sarvents as well, that therewasn' no duss on the shelves.
An' rowlin' her bonnad ribbons to be all so nate'sa pin,An' larnin' the childher their duty, but spashul thiswan that's in.It's like she'd be radin' the laws to 'm while sittin'beside his bed,The way she'd be havin' him studdy by the timehe'd come to be head.
An' sarvin' his time for King, eddicated an' all forto know,Aw, a rale grammatical falla—Prince of Walesthey were callin' him to,An' was'n it our "Cap'n" Hunter that was withhim aboord the ship,To see that them ignorant haythens was notgivin' none of their lip.
There's them comin' though—there—roun' byCronk Urleigh, see—Gerrourra th' road, Lizzie veen! Is it devouredyou're wantin' to beUnder the feet of the horses? Stan' quite, now,for these wans to tellThe pretty the Manx gels is—(The King passes)—Aw! Well!
Sing soft and lowYe winds that blowAnd whisper round this quiet shed,Wake not His sleepFor shadows deepAre drawing round His sacred Head.
Sing sweet and highYe birds that fly,But gently trill your tender theme;Lest all too soonYour joyous tuneShould wake Him from some Heavenly dream.
Sing loud and strongYe Angel throngTo Kings and shepherds bear the sign,That peace on earthHas come to birthAnd lies amid the humble kine.
O let Him restIn this poor nest,Where still His Mother softly sings;For well we knowWhat tears will flowEre sorrows crown Him King of Kings.
"Yet sorrow not as those who have no hope."
O Ellan Vannin we are grieving sore,Lost Ellan Vannin, for the souls you boreThrough that dark crossing to an unseen shore.
What was the story of that last farewell?Nought but the ocean's voice remains to tell,Tolling above them with its endless knell.
O sorrow, sorrow, for the ship that's lost,O sorrow, sorrow, for the tears she cost,But sorrow not for those that safely crossed.
Though through the darkness of the wintry mornCame that stern call for them ere day was born;No time to grieve for those they left forlorn!
Though with the blare of that great trumpet blast,High over head the mighty wave was cast,From storm to Peace eternal, swift they passed.
O sorrow, sorrow, for the ship that's lost,O sorrow, sorrow, for the tears she cost,But sorrow not for those that safely crossed.
For One came to them on that awful wave,With loving hands outstretched to calm and save—Straight to the Port of His strong Arms they drave.
He took the nestling babe to His own Breast,He drew them safely through the surging crestOf death's dark wave to Light, and Peace, and Rest.
Long may we sorrow for the ship that's lost,Long may we sorrow for the tears she cost,But sorrow breaks in joy for those that crossed.
The sun is goin' wes' with meThe little everin's nigh,An' clearer shines the light uponThose mansions in the sky;An' surely through that level lightThe very flowers shine more bright,An' all things soften to the sight,In the little everin'.
The years have slipped away from meLike snow before the rain;I would not ask to have them backOr live them through again;But thankful at the close of dayI linger on the homeward wayAn' watch the childher at their playIn the little everin'.
There's some that's gone away from meIn lands afar to roam;An' some that's gone to wait for meIn that new Heavenly Home.I see them in the sunset gleamThey speak with me across the streamAn' all my life becomes a dreamIn the little everin'.
GLOSSARY.
Arrane - A song or ballad.
Beg or Veg - Little.
Bogh - Poor—term of endearment.
Bons - Bits of stick, charred gorse, &c., gathered for kindling a fire.
Carvel - A carol.
Chibber - A well.
Chiollagh - Hearth-stone.
Cooag - The Cuckoo.
Cooish - Confidential chat or discourse.
Couth - The cold.
Cushag - Ragwort.
Dreem - Back. The ridge of a hill.
Eirey - Heir.
Earey - An open airy place.
Faie - Field near dwelling house.
Garvel (for 'Cabby') - A horse.
Gairey - Rough pasture land grown over with gorse.
Glass - Grey or green.
Howlaa - A spirit who wails on the sea-shore before storm.
Jeel - Harm. Mischief.
Kirree - Sheep.
Keill - Small ancient chapel or cell.
Lhiannoo - A child.
Loaghtan - The brown mountain sheep.
Lumpers - Boys and girls. Probably a sailors' word.
Mannin or Vannin - Isle of Man.
Ma chree - My heart.
Meg - A lamb brought up by the hand.
Meein or Veen - Fine, soft—term of endearment.
Millish or Villish - Darling.
Mie or Vie - Good.
Mhellia - Harvest-Home
Moar - Great.
Nogh - To-night.
Oie - Eve.
Oie'll Voirrey - Eve of the Feast of Mary. Christmas Eve.
Rhullick - Burial Ground.
Sceddan - Herring.
Sniaghthey - Snow.
Sooree - Courting.
Tramman - Elder Tree.
Tholtan - Ruined cottage or barn.
Treih - Bad.
Traa-di-liooar - Time enough.
Ushag - A bird.