English

THE C URATE'S S TORY

We went to climb Barrule,
Wind light, air cool —
But when we reached the crest
That fronts Cornaa,
A black cloud leaned its breast
Upon the bay —
And, seeing from Ayre to Maughold Head
The long wings spread
Slumb'rous with brazen light,
Swift dropping from the height
We follow
The crags that northward shoot,
And find ourselves within the hollow
Of Gob-ny-Scuit —
Spout-mouth — so named because
It seems as if a giant's jaws
Gaped wide —

Aye! exactly — that's the name —
Fanny Graeme, Fanny Graeme —
Come aboord in the Prince's dock —
Loadin' theer — and caught her frock
In the gangway — the crooky it was put —
And a slip and a skip, and a twist of her foot,
And fell in his arms — Whose arms? you shoutit?
That shows you don't know much about it —
Who and what, and where and when —
Avast these quashtins! Peter's then —
Peter's arms — that's Peter Young,
Peter the 'printice, Peter the Tongue —
That's what we called him, bein' despard slippy,

Women, wutches! No, I'm not,
I'll contradick ye like a shot —
Me that's havin' the greatest respec'
For what they're callin' the waeker sec';
Me that's special devoted, devoted —
That's the word — lek mostly noted
For the civil to women! But the thing is clear,
This wutch, this Banks, that was raisin' here
Lek a native you'd be say'n' of the Islan',
No doubt, but, bless ye! goin' a spilin'
In English sarvice, like a warp in the wud,
More English till Manx. For the Manx is gud;
But when the Manx is strainin' urrov them,

THIRD S ERIES

PRELUDE

First comes Tom Baynes among these sorted quills,
In asynartete octosyllables.
Methinks you see the " fo'c's'le " squat, the squirt
Nicotian, various interval of shirt,
Enlarged, contract — keen swordsman, cut-and-thrust:
Old salt, old rip, old friend, Tom Baynes comes fust .

Succeeds our Curate, innocent and good,
The growth of Oxford in her sanest mood;

What's he sayin'? God bless the falla!
Love is love even in a sheep —
There's some that takes it middlin' shalla;
But there's some that takes it very deep.

You mind me tellin' of Jemmy Jem,
And the son and the daughter, him and them
Up at the church agate of the carols —
" Shepherds watchin', " " Hark the harals! " —
That night the Christmas come ashore —
Christmas Rose, I tould ye afore —
Christmas, aye.
Three schools in the parish

PART I

The Sherragh Vane
Is up Sulby glen,
High up, my men —
High up — you'll not see a sight of it
From the road at all,
By rayson of the height of it —
Terbil high; and a little skute
Of a waterfall,
Slip-sloppin' from the root
Of an ould kern —
You know the turn
At the Bridge, and the Chapel?
Well, in on the gate,
Behind there, that's the road, like straight
For Druid-a-whapple;
And just you're passin'
The School, and up you go —

SECOND S ERIES

DEDICATION

Dear countrymen, whate'er is left to us
Of ancient heritage —
Of manners, speech, of humours, polity
The limited horizon of our stage —
Old love, hope, fear,
All this I fain would fix upon the page;
That so the coming age,

SPES ALTERA

T O THE FUTURE M ANX P OET

O Poet, somewhere to be born
'Twixt Calf and Ayre before the century closes,
Cain, Karran, Kewish, or Skillicorn,
Soft-lapt serene 'mid antenatal roses,
Abide until I come, lest chance we miss
Each other as we pass, nor any kiss
Be planted on your brow thrice dear,
Nor any spell of mine be murmured in your ear!

For I will seek you in the bowers

When Arrius would commodious say,
Chommodious always was his way;
And when insidious he would name,
Strait from his lips hinsidious came:
Nay more, he thought, with that strong swell,
He spoke hinsidious wondrous well.
His uncle Liber, and his mother,
I doubt not, so address'd each other;
And that his grandsire, and grandame,
By female line, did just the same.
When Arrius was to Syria sent,
Each wearied ear became content:
But now no more these words displease,

Hail, door, to husband and to father dear!
And may Jove make thee his peculiar care!
Thou who, when Balbus liv'd, if fame say true,
Wast wont a thousand sorry things to do;
And, when they carried forth the good old man,
For the new bride who didst them o'er again;
Say, how have people this strange notion got,
As if thy former faith thou hadst forgot?

DOOR .

So may Caecilius help me, whom I now
Must own my master, as I truly vow! —