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Skeealyn Aesop
Aesop's Fables

Daanyn Faragher
Edward Faragher's Poems

Daanyn Edward Faragher

Shoh daanyn screeut liorish Edward Faragher (Neddy Beg Hom Ruy), veih'n lioar "Skeealyn Aesop", as ish er ny soilshaghey liorish Brialtagh Ellan Vannin ayns 1901. Choud's ta fys aym, ta'n coip-chiart oc cheaut, agh mannagh shen kiart, cur fys dou my sailliu as nee'm arraghey ad. Ta fys persoonagh er y duillag "mychione".

Choud's ta fys aym, cha nel kiangley erbee eddyr mish as Poor Shimmin dy row!

These poems were written by Edward Faragher (Neddy Beg Hom Ruy), and published in the book "Skeealyn Aesop" by the Isle of Man Examiner in 1901. So far as I know, the copyright has expired, but if that's wrong, please let me know and I'll remove them. My contact details are on the "about" page.

To the best of my knowledge, there's no connection between myself and Poor Shimmin!


This is the place we used to rove,
This is the road we walked in ;
This is the nook, and this the grove
Where we so often talked in ;
And these the primroses that bloom,
This is the hawthorne blossom,
This is the place of shade and gloom
I clasped her to my bosom.

This is the place my vows I sighed,
Her charms my cares beguiling,
This is the place I viewed with pride,
My loved one sweetly smiling ;
This is the place I press’d her lips,
This is the place we strolled in ;
This is the place I kissed her cheeks,
While in my arms enfolding.

This is the dew-bespangled bed
Where we sat down to rest us.
This is the place where sadness fled,
For nothing then distressed us;
This is the place she fondly clung –
Though now my heart regrets it –
The place where on my neck she hung,
My sad heart ne’er forgets it.

This is the hill, the mountain side
Where all our vows were spoken,
The place she vowed to be my bride,
But all those vows are broken.
These are the birds that used to sing,
And these the evening breezes,
This is the crystal flowing spring,
This is the pool that freezes,
This is the place that was so sweet,
At evening shade we hasted,
This is the place we used to meet –
Many an hour we wasted.

NOTE: I made the acquaintance of a Scotch lass once when I was in Liverpool. She was servant in a gentleman’s house on the outskirts of the town. She was from Aberdeen, in Scotland, and was a fine rosy lass ; she wished me to come out to meet her the next evening she would be out. It was in the summer time, and the weather was very warm. I went out at the hour appointed, but as she could not get out so early I had to wait some time, and I went over the hedge and lay down in the grass to wait her appearance, and as I lay there I composed a song on the occasion, and I will give you a copy:


The setting sun is sinking down
Behind the western hills,
While gentle zephyrs waft the sound
Of distant flowing rills ;
The little birds are gone to rest
In yonder shady grove,
The crimson twilight in the west
Brings for the time for love.

The dew falls silent from the sky,
On every shrub and flower,
And evening shadows hover nigh
When love comes out with power ;
While I am lonely lying here,
And musing on the scene,
Waiting till Jessy will appear :
The Rose of Aberdeen.

‘Tis neath the closing shades of night
That lovers have their charms,
When lips are press’d in fond delight,
Locked in each other’s arms ;
Love is a timid, bashful thing
That hovers round the heart,
But like the owl is on the wing,
Who wanders in the dark ;
And thus reclining on the grass,
Amidst this calm serene,
Awaiting for this bonny lass :
The Rose of Aberdeen.

Her cheeks are like the roses red,
Her eyes like diamonds shine ;
Her lips are like the scarlet thread ;
She’s lovely and divine!
She’s all that I can wish to be,
She’s nature’s fairest Queen,
The lass I love so tenderly :
The Rose of Aberdeen.


Across the deep blue sea I fly,
Forced by despairing love to part ;
While tears o’erflow my pensive eye,
And sadness seems to freeze my heart.

I leave behind my native shore,
And you my best and only friend,
And oh, may meet on earth no more,
Another happy day to spend.

Yet still I’ll bear thee in my mind,
In every distant clime I rove ;
And though I leave thee far behind,
I never can forget thy love.

Though doomed by fate to cross the deep,
Thy tender smile no more to see, –
Yet cease, my mother – cease to weep ;
Farewell, – but still I’ll think of thee.

You soothed my heart when in distress,
And when I grew to riper years
You still retained your tenderness
And o’er the wanderer shed tears.

I’ll not forget thy tender care,
Though distant I am doomed to be ;
The victim, too, of sad despair,
Farewell, – but still I’ll think of thee.

Long since my bleeding heart had broke,
Life’s weary vale while passing through,
Ere now I’d lost each spark of hope,
My mother, were it not for you.

Yet if we meet on earth no more,
Until we bow to fate’s decree,
Farewell, – but on a happier shore
I hope thy face again to see.

I’ll not forget thy parting tears,
When last I left the dear-loved place,
The object of thy fervent prayers,
And turned the mountain of Cregneish.

Yet while life’s crimson current flow,
Thy name shall dwell in memory ;
Though now destined by fate to go,
Farewell, – but still I think of thee.

Though all things change, and naught remain
To soothe this heart by grief opprest,
My mother – till we meet again –
The thoughts of thee shall fill my breast.

Thy name I often will repeat,
Where’er I roam, where’er I be,
No other name on earth so meet,
Farewell, – but still I think of thee.

I’ll not forget that tender love
Which I have only found in thee,
And every change in vain will prove –
For naught can work a change in me.

In vision while I lie asleep,
Thy gentle form I often see ;
Then cease, my mother, cease to weep ;
Farewell, – farewell, – remember me!


Now far away from Mona’s shore,
Thy hills behold I can no more,
Thy sylvan glens and shady bowers,
And cliffs adorned with purple flowers,
Nor little birds that sweetly sing :
Though all these charms are lost to me,
Yet still my fond heart clings to thee.

The prickly gorse, with yellow bloom,
That grows entwined with the wild broom,
The rose that shimmers from the fen,
And meek primroses in the glen,
The wintry snows and rosy spring,
That taught my muses how to sing,
Are graven on my memory,
And oh, my fond heart clings to thee!

The bee has sipped the bright-eyed dew,
And hovered o’er the violet blue :
The lark that sung the morn to cheer,
Whose melody I loved to hear
When the bright source of day returned,
And Mona’s smiling glens adorned,
Are all invisible to me,
But still my fond heart clings to thee!

My fancy lingers still around
Where nectar’s fairest scenes abound ;
In dreams the meadows green appear,
And tinkling streamlets bright and clear,
With verdant spots where daisies grow,
And heather bells in purple glow ;
Though I no more those charms can see,
In thought I’ll still revisit thee!

The setting sun that gilds the west,
And Mona’s hills with beauty drest,
While evening zephyrs gently move
The closing roses in the grove,
And moonlight in the east appears,
To stud the grass with fairy tears,
Are now beyond the deep blue sea,
But still my fond heart clings to thee!

Thy frowning cliffs – majestic, wild,
Which I have climbed when but a child,
Where fairies danced in days of yore,
And mermaids sang upon the shore ;
The shady glens and gloomy caves,
Lashed by the surges of the waves,
Are left behind and lost to me,
But yet my heart still clings to thee!

In thee my fancy lingers still,
And climbs thy steep and rugged hill,
And seems to heave the painful sights
Drawn from my heart by beauty’s eyes,
And sips the soft ambrosial dew
From lips of sparkling coral hue,
My Island home, though far from me,
In memory I dwell in thee.

In midnight dreams I rove along,
To hear the mermaid’s fabled song ;
And view the fairies take their flight
Beneath the moon’s pale, silver light,
O’er heather bells of purpled blue,
And valleys laid in mist and dew :
Those charms by day no more I see,
Yet slumber brings them back to me.

In dreams I see the sunny smile
Which once did all my cares beguile,
And seem to taste the nectar sweets
That hung upon her rosy lips,
And thus transported in her arms,
Revive anew love’s youthful charms,
And happy moments once enjoyed
Where sweet Castruan’s waters glide,
In vision still so let me roam,
To see my childhood’s happy home.

Where light spring flowers sweetly bloom,
And west winds carry their perfume,
Though ruin’s mantle now is spread
Above the graves of loved ones dead,
My heart is twined around the spot,
My little native village cot,
Wherever I wander, wherever I be,
My fond heart lingers still in thee.

And thou shalt be remembered still,
secluded village of the hill ;
Though I may never see thee more,
In dreams I’ll linger on thy shore,
And visit all thy secret bowers,
Where elfins sport in midnight hours ;
Till death shall still this throbbing breast,
And ‘neath the willows laid at rest.


Mona, my native land,
Though far from thee I rove ;
In fancy on thy strand,
I rest with those I love
While on the billows lone and wild,
I think of thee, my wife, and child.

Thy hills and heather flowers,
Thy glens and woody dells,
Thy ancient fairy bowers,
Thy moss-clad sparkling wells
Just as of yore are flowering still,
And swell the mountain’s gurgling rill.

Mona, my Island home,
I dearly love thee yet :
Though far from thee I roam,
I never can forget.
Distance and absence cannot blot
My childhood’s home, my native cot.

Mona, my native shore,
My father’s land, and mine ;
Still fondly as of yore,
My heart-strings round thee twine.
Though far I wander o’er the earth,
I love the land that gave me birth.

Mona, where I have slept,
Mona, where I have toiled,
Mona, where I have wept,
Mona, where I have smiled,
My native cot, still dear to me,
I wish to rest in death near thee.


Oh! what a medicine kisses prove
In infancy and childhood’s years,
Nothing like these the heart can move,
There’s nothing dries so many tears.

Though nothing is so sweet and brief,
Nothing so many wounds can heal,
Nothing can soothe the heart in grief,
Like the sweet kisses lovers steal.

A good night’s kiss is very sweet
When weary nature calls to rest,
And then how peacefully we sleep
When those we love our lips have prest.

And sweet is a good morning kiss,
The promise of a happy day,
For with this tender taste of bliss,
Our troubles seem to pass away.

Sweet the forgiving kiss of love ;
And the approving kiss is strong ;
It cheers the spirit prone to rove,
And very often rights some wrong.

A sister’s kiss keeps many a boy
From evil and its syren art ;
A brother’s kiss is oft the joy
And comfort of a sister’s heart.

A child’s kiss is a dear reward
For many a weary hour of toil ;
A mother’s kiss of kind regard
The seeming ills of life beguile.

A husband’s kiss leaves a light step,
A bright smile, and glad heart behind,
While curbing care and vain regret
That kiss has banished from the mind.

The home where kisses thus abound,
Will be a home of peace and love ;
No words unkind will there be found,
To draw the mind from things above.


Oh Mona, thou gem of the waters,
Thy hills with delight I behold ;
Where thy healthy sons and fair daughters
Are tripping oe’r cowslips of gold.

The skylark his carol is singing,
While rivers meandering glide,
And streams in the hillside are springing,
And travel right down to the tide.

The silver mists still round thee gather,
Yet the wizard chief is not there ;
Reclining upon the blue heather,
Old Mannanan beg Mac-y-Lir.

The sun on thy mountains is shining,
The “three legs” are now out of date ;
While gorse bush and heather is twining,
As all things are ruled by cold fate.

Thy vales with primroses bespangled,
That daisies and violets adorn,
The rocks where of yore I have angled,
Be sprinkled with dew in the morn.

Thy hills with the gay heather glowers,
I own are thrice welcome to me;
Thy dark glens and gay fairy bowers,
Thou beautiful gem of the sea!

By billows of ocean surrounded,
As clear as the bright crystal stream,
Where arrows of Cupid have wounded
The bosom of many a swain.

How welcome to me are thy mountains,
Thy rude cliffs and pebbly shore ;
Though thy rippling streamlets and fountains
Are haunted by fairies no more.

Fair Mona ! of beauty exquisite,
There’s no place so lovely and dear ;
Though mermaids no longer re-visit,
Nor on thy rude rocks comb their hair.

Yet still as the home of my childhood,
Thy beauties I seem to adore ;
Absent from thy dark glens and wild wood,
My fond heart but loves thee the more.

Wherever hard fate bids me wander,
In thought I’ll revisit thee still ;
And on thy old legends I’ll ponder,
And cling to Mull’s heather-clad hill.

Fair Mona ! thou star of the ocean,
Wherever I wander from thee,
Thy charms still are dear to my bosom,
Thou beautiful gem of the sea!


(Composed just before leaving.)

I’ve wandered on proud Albion’s shore,
And viewed the scenes the world adore!
The works of art and phantasy
That can possess no charm for me ;
For still my heart is far away
Beyond the waves of the deep sea,
Where daisies and primroses bloom
And heather flowers the breeze perfume.

I’ve been to concert, dance, and ball,
And I have seen St. George’s Hall,
I’ve seen the great in gay attire,
And follies that the world admire ;
But yet they had no charm for me –
My heart was far beyond the sea,
Among the hills and valleys gay,
And larks that sing their morning lay.

I’ve seen the shops of great renown
Erected in the sinful town ;
I’ve seen the ships with snow-white sails ;
And, Oh! I’ve seen the Prince of Wales ;
I’ve seen the Princess, too, as well,
And more than now I mean to tell ;
Yet all could bring no joy to me,
My heart was still beyond the sea.

I’ve seen the ladies, young and fair,
And in their love did often share,
Which often cheered in care and toil,
While in the sunshine of their smile ;
Yet still ‘twas cold and dark to me –
My heart is fond beyond the sea :
Where mother plies the spinning wheel,
And Betsy turns the creaking reel.

I’ve seen the tear in beauty’s eye,
I’ve seen their bosoms heave and sigh,
I’ve felt their lips impressed on mine,
And felt their loving arms entwine ;
Yet all could bring no joy to me,
My heart was still beyond the sea –
Among the hills of Mona’s Isle,
Where Kate for me was wont to smile.

Farewell to phantasy and art
That never can fill up my heart,
And those fair maids, with witching smile,
No more can my sad heart beguile ;
For still my fancy lingers where
The youthful Kitty blooms so fair,
And father tills my native soil
Among the hills of Mona’s Isle.

Farewell! Those dreams no more can please
The heart that lies beyond the seas,
Among the hills and heather flowers,
Which oft beguiled my youthful hours ;
Though once I left, forlorn, alone,
But now again returning home,
Where my fond parents yet remain,
And Kate, to welcome me again.


I've stood on the top of Barrule,
and walked over steep Cronk-ny-Harrey ;
I’ve stood on the summit of Mull,
And climbed the steep cliffs of the Staggey.

I’ve scaled the rude walls of Rabouge,
And bathed in sweet Castruan’s harbour ;
And sat on the heather that robes
The hills and the valleys with verdure.

I’ve robbed the seagull of her young,
And in the rude rocks I have angled,
And little red “bollans” have hung
From the point of my fishing-rod dangled.

I’ve followed the stream in the glen,
And seen it fall into the ocean.
I’ve plucked the primrose in the fen,
And stuck it to bloom in my bosom.

I’ve traversed the shore all around,
And heard the dread hurricane roaring ;
I’ve sheltered in caves underground,
Whilst rain-drops in torrents were pouring.

I’ve walked o’er the hills in moonlight,
And seen the gay lark in the morning ;
I’ve seen the sun setting at night,
And seen it in glory returning.

I’ve sailed round the little Calf Island,
And sighed when the flowers were dead ;
I’ve gazed on the billows so wild,
From the summit of proud Spanish Head.

But now far away from the scene,
Yet distance nor time can efface ;
Though billows are rolling between
Me and the rude hills of Cregneish.


When the summer day’s declining,
And the flowers wet with dew,
And the moonbeams brightly shining,
With the ocean in view,
When the wind has ceased its raging,
And the sea like glass appears,
And the evening calm assuaging
All life’s sorrows and its cares;
Then the mind is sweetly stealing
From a world of toil and pain,
To a source of peace unfailing,
Like a calm upon the main ;
For the ills that here oppress us
Cannot reach that peaceful shore,
And the trials that distress us
Cannot enter through its door.
While the gentle breathing zephyrs
Waft the fragrance of the grove,
And the ever-closing shadows
Draw the mind to things above :
Oh how sweet ‘tis now to wander
Where the heather flowers bloom,
And reflect on scenes more tender
In the land beyond the tomb :
Where the wind is never blwoing,
And the tempest’s rage is o’er ;
Where the stream of life is flowing
For the humble and the poor ;
Where the heaving sigh of sadness
Never heaves the troubled breast,
Where the voice of joy and gladness
Soothes the cares of life to rest :
Where no tear of woe is starting,
And no dread of death’s cold stream,
And the heart that bleeds at parting
Never more shall bleed again ;
Where the sadness of the bosom
Shall for ever more remove,
As we plunge into the ocean
Of the great Redeemer’s love : –
May we, still in earnest seeking,
That blest country strive to win,
Where the eye shall cease from weeping,
And no more oppressed with sin ;
‘Neath the willow’s shade reclining,
Free from sunshine and from showers,
And the heart no more repining
For the joys of happier hours.


Poor poet! thou art laid to sleep
Beneath the graveyard’s verdant soil,
Though few lament thy fate, or weep
The bard of Mona’s sea-girt Isle.

For sons of genius are despised
Upon this rugged Island shore,
And poets are so slightly prized,
And seldom thought of any more.

Yet, though with talents thou wert blest,
And sung the charms of Mona’s hills,
And built a cottage in the West,
Beside the mountain’s flowing rills :

Thy life was all a checkered scene,
With fits and starts of doing well ;
But whatsoever thou hast been,
Or what thy fate is, none can tell.

For death’s cold hand has cut thee down,
And hid thy talents in the earth, –
Now thou art moulding in the ground,
While no one cares to sing thy worth.

Are we not told if man should gain
The world, and then possess the whole,
Would not his wealth be all in vain
If at the end he lost his soul?

Yet if thou hast through blood Divine
Entered the land of sweet repose,
I hope its happiness is thine –
Yet God and thee the secret knows.

To judge thy faults we are forbid,
For we are dust defiled in sin :
And where the Spirit goes ‘tis hid
From those that live this world within.

Thou told me once that I might say
Thy soul was gone with Christ to dwell,
But thou art dead and gone away –
I know not if to heaven or hell.

And now thy songs have ceased to thrill
Alike the youthful and the fair,
Yet some may be remembered still
By old men withered up and sere.

Farewell, poor bard! thy thrilling song
Alas, had but few charms for me.
And thou are gone to dwell among
The beings of eternity.

Since thou art laid beneath the sod,
We’ll not review thy failings here ;
We leave thy faults and deeds with God,
Who gives more kindly judgement there.

NOTE. – Shimmin was a well-known man of great powers and talent. He lived in the south west part of the Island, and composed many songs in Manx. His fame still lingers in the memory of the old people. He was held to be very eccentric and erratic.


Dear friend! Accept this token small
Of my sincere regard,
It will not humble you at all,
Nor seek for a reward.

Tried by the artist’s dainty skill,
No taint nor shade is lost,
An age will see it blooming yet
Like evergreens in frost.

And yet, when I am laid at rest,
If you think to reward,
Then show it to each friendly guest,
And say he was a bard :

Who sang among fair Mona’s hills,
The charms he loved so dear,
And wandering by the mountain rills,
When none but God was near –

Ere long his song will die and cease,
His notes will rise no more :
But yet he hopes to sleep in peace
Upon some kindlier shore.

(c) 2007-12 John Shimmin. Dagh kiart tashtit; cha nel mee credjal dy vel erbee aym, agh er aggle ny haggle.