Logo ta gra 'Kishtey stoo Yuan'








Skeealyn Saki
Saki's Stories

Skeealyn Wodehouse
Wodehouse's Stories

Skeealyn Lovecraft
Lovecraft's Stories

Skeealyn Ghunsany
Dunsany's Stories

Skeealyn Dunsany

Myr rheynn jeh'n obbyr aym Gaelg er skeealyn beggey y chur, shoh shiartanse dy skeealyn y Çhiarn Dunsany. My ta shiu fakin marranys ennagh 'syn obbyr, as s'cosoylagh dy nee, cur fys dou my sailliu. Ta fys persoonagh er y duillag "mychione".

As part of my project to translate short stories into Manx, here are a few stories from Lord Dunsany. If you notice any errors in the work, which there certainly will be, please let me know. Contact information is on the "about" page.


Lesh goaill arrane ‘sy raaidyn mooarey, as jummal traa marish contoyrtee hrullee, hie Foaynoo shaghey y vard.

As ren y bard foast atteeyn beggey arrane jee, dys jesheenaghey e baaish eddin ayns quaillyn Hraa; as cheau ish foast ny slonganyn gyn feeu hilg feallee annymoil huick ‘sy raad, jeant jeh reddyn çherraghtagh.

As lurg tammylt, tra hooar ny slonganyn baase, boallagh y bard çheet jee as atteeyn arrane echey jee; as boallagh ee gearey er as ceau foast ny slonganyn gyn feeu, ga dy dooar ad rieau baase ‘syn ‘astyr.

As laa dy row as eshyn sharroo hug y bard oghsan jee, as gra: “Foaynoo aalin, eer fo-raad as fo-straaid cha nel oo shaghney gearey orrym as yllagh as spotçhal marish riftanyn, as mish t’er dooilleil er-dty-hon as er nreamal jeed, t’ou craidey moom as goll my haghey.”

As hyndaa Foaynoo e h-eddin jeh as shooyl voish, agh lesh faagail yeeagh eh harrish e geaylin as mynghearey er mongey nagh row eck roie, as, faggys myr hannish, dooyrt ee:

“Higym dty whaiyl ‘sy ruillick çheu-chooylloo Hie ny Moght ayns keead bleeaney.”

The Assignation

Fame singing in the highways, and trifling as she sang, with sordid adventurers, passed the poet by.

And still the poet made for her little chaplets of song, to deck her forehead in the courts of Time: and still she wore instead the worthless garlands, that boisterous citizens flung to her in the ways, made out of perishable things.

And after a while whenever these garlands died the poet came to her with his chaplets of song; and still she laughed at him and wore the worthless wreaths, though they always died at evening.

And one day in his bitterness the poet rebuked her, and said to her: "Lovely Fame, even in the highways and the byways you have not foreborne to laugh and shout and jest with worthless men, and I have toiled for you and dreamed of you and you mock me and pass me by."

And Fame turned her back on him and walked away, but in departing she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him as she had not smiled before, and, almost speaking in a whisper, said:

"I will meet you in the graveyard at the back of the Workhouse in a hundred years."


Ayns glion Nis ta’n eayst vaarnee vollaghtagh soilshaghey dy thanney, as liorish eairkyn faasey t’ee raipey raad da’n toilshey eck trooid duillagys marrooagh billey-upas mooar. As ayns cree ny glionney raad nagh roshys soilshey erbee, ta cummaghyn garraghey nagh vel cooie da sooillyn deiney. S’rank ee glasseraght ny lhargee, raad ta raiseyderyn as çhionnagyn olkey snaue mastey claghyn plaaseyn currit mow, as lhoobey mygeayrt collooghyn brishtey as leacyn quaaghey, as girree straiddyn marmyragh va jeant ec laueyn jarroodit. As ayns biljyn ta gaase dy foawragh ayns closeyn boghlanagh ta apagyn beggey corlheimmey, as magh as stiagh ny thieyn-tashtee ta ard-nieughyn snaue, as reddyn crottylagh gyn ennym.

S’buillvollee ad ny claghyn nyn gadley fo curleidyn keynnagh hash, s’lajer ad ny boallaghyn huitt ad voue. Er son dy bragh ren masoonee ad y hroggal, as dy firrinagh t’ad jannoo shirveish braew foast, da’n beayf lheeah ta cummal foue.

Ec eer-vun ny glionney ta’n awin Theinney ny lhie, lesh ushtaghyn gleiynagh as sarkylagh. T’ee girree ass çhibbyryn follit, as roie da ooigyn fo-hallooin, as cha nel fys ec Jouyl ny Glionney er yn oyr dy vel ny h-hushtaghyn jiarg, n’er c’raad t’ad roie.

Ren Jinnee ny goullyn eaystey loayrt rish Jouyll ny Glionney, as gra: “Ta mee shenn, as ta ram jarroodit aym. Insh dou obbraghyn as cummey as ennym adsyn ren ny reddyn cloaie shoh.” As dreggyr y Jouyll, “She mish Cooinaghtyn, as creeney lesh oayllys traaghyn t’er ngoll shaghey, agh ta mish shenn myrgeddin. Va ny bioee shen gollrish ushtaghyn ny h-awiney Theiney, harrish toiggal. Cha gooin lhiam ny h-obbraghyn oc; v’ad jeh’n çhallid ynrican. S’cooin lhiam dy dullyr y cummey v’oc; v’ad gollrish ny h-apagyn beggey ayns ny biljyn. S’cooin lhiam dy baghtal yn ennym oc, ny drane da ennym ny h-awiney: ny bioee jea shen, hug ad Deiney orroo.”

As jettyl y Jinnee erash da’n eayst eairkagh thanney, as jeeagh y Jouyll dy cruinn er apag beg ayns billey daase ayns close boghlanagh.


In the valley of Nis the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great upas-tree. And within the depths of the valley, where the light reaches not, move forms not meet to be beheld. Rank is the herbage on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of ruined palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in trees that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure-vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly things without a name.

Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve nobly, for beneath them the grey toad makes his habitation.

At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the Daemon of the Valley knows not why its waters are red, nor whither they are bound.

The Genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the Daemon of the Valley, saying, “I am old, and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone.” And the Daemon replied, “I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called Man.”

So the Genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the Daemon looked intently at a little ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard.


Chroym Çharon er oaie as ymmyrt. Va dagh ooilley red goit stiagh ‘sy tooilleilys v’er.

Cha nee cooish dy vleeantyn ny keeadyn v’ayn, agh thooillaghyn foawragh dy hraa, as shenn trommys as pian ‘syn arm v’eh er gliaghtey rish myr ayrn jeh kiaddey ny jeeghyn as myrane lesh Beaynid.

Dy beagh ny jeeghyn er chur da eer gheay chontraartagh, veagh eh er rheynn ooilley traa ‘sy chooinaghtyn echey ayns daa leac corrym rish y cheilley.

Cho lheeah va dagh ooilley red raad chum eh, dy jinnagh sollyssid erbee feiyal thurrick mastey ny merriu, er eddin benrein myr Cleopatra foddee, cha noddagh e hooill ny chronnaghey.

By whaagh eh dy daink ny merriu nyn ymmodee ‘sy traa v’ayn. Haink ad nyn dousaneyn ga dy b'oayllagh daue çheet nyn naeedyn. Cha by churrym ny mian Haron eh smooinaghtyn 'syn annym lheeah echey er cre'n oyr. Chroym eh as ymmyrt.

Eisht rish tammylt cha daink peiagh erbee. Cha b'oayllagh da ny jeeghyn gyn cur peiagh erbee neose veih'n Teihll rish lheid y tammylt. Agh share fys ec ny jeeghyn.

Eisht haink dooinney ny lomarcan. As hoie sheese y scaa beg bibbernee er beck follym as heiy yn baatey jeh'n çheer. Cha nel agh un troailtagh: share fys ec ny jeeghyn. As ren Çharon mooar as tooillit gymmyrt roish as roish rish y scaa tost beg bibbernee.

As va sheean ny h-awiney gollrish sogh vooar va Seaghyn er soghal 'sy toshiaght marish e shuyraghyn, as nagh noddagh geddyn baase myr mactullee vran deiney huitt er cruink thallooin, agh va cho shenn as traa as y pian ayns armyn Haron.

Eisht ren y baatey veih'n awin voal lheeah roshtyn thalloo Dis, as hooill y scaa tost beg er-traie as eh bibbernee foast, as ren Çharon yn baatey y hyndaa dys ymmyrt dy skee erash da'n Teihll. Eisht dooyrt y scaa, va ny ghooinney keayrt dy row.

"She mish y jerrinagh," as eh.

Cha row peiagh erbee rieau er chur er Çharon mongey; cha row peiagh erbee rieau er chur er keayney.


Charon leaned forward and rowed. All things were one with his weariness.

It was not with him a matter of years or of centuries, but of wide floods of time, and an old heaviness and a pain in the arms that had become for him part of the scheme that the gods had made and was of a piece with Eternity.

If the gods had even sent him a contrary wind it would have divided all time in his memory into two equal slabs.

So grey were all things always where he was that if any radiance lingered a moment among the dead, on the face of such a queen perhaps as Cleopatra, his eyes could not have perceived it.

It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.

Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.

Then one man came alone. And the little shade sat shivering on a lonely bench and the great boat pushed off. Only one passenger: the gods knew best. And great and weary Charon rowed on and on beside the little, silent, shivering ghost.

And the sound of the river was like a mighty sigh that Grief in the beginning had sighed among her sisters, and that could not die like the echoes of human sorrow failing on earthly hills, but was as old as time and the pain in Charon's arms.

Then the boat from the slow, grey river loomed up to the coast of Dis and the little, silent shade still shivering stepped ashore, and Charon turned the boat to go wearily back to the world. Then the little shadow spoke, that had been a man.

"I am the last," he said.

No one had ever made Charon smile before, no one before had ever made him weep.

Yn Çheer Gyn Vardaght

Haink y bard stiagh ayns çheer vooar nagh row bardaght erbee aynjee. As ren eh boirey dy mial er son yn ashoon shid gyn arrane beg ommidjagh erbee dy ghoaill ‘syn oie.

As dooyrt eh fy-yerrey: “Neeyms screeu er nyn son kuse d’arraneyn beggey ommidjagh do beagh ad gennal ‘sy raad as gearagh roish yn çhiollagh.” As rish ymmodee laghyn ren eh daue arraneyn eddrym, jeh’n torçh ta doodeeyn goaill er cruink ny çheeraghyn shinney s’maynrey.

Eisht hie eh da sleih ny çheerey as ad nyn soie as skee liorish tooilleil yn laa, as dooyrt eh daue: “Ta mee er screeu diu kuse d’arraneyn eddrym rere ny skeealyn meeresoonagh beggey, beggan gollrish y gheay ayns glioonyn my aegid; foddee dy by vie lhiu ad y ghoaill rish ny h-oieyn meegherjoilagh eu.”

As dooyrt ad da:

“My t’ou credjal dy vel traa dy liooar ain ny laghyn shoh er son lheid yn ommidjys, s’baghtal nagh vel monney fys ayd er immeeaght chochionneeaght jeianagh.”

As ren y bard keayney as gra: “Atreih! T’ad caillt.”

Notey: Ta'n skeeal shoh ry-gheddyn myr skeeal clashtynagh lhaiht aym pene: recortys MP3

The Songless Country

The poet came unto a great country in which there were no songs. And he lamented gently for the nation that had not any little foolish songs to sing to itself at evening.

And at last he said: "I will make for them myself some little foolish songs so that they may be merry in the lanes and happy by the fireside." And for some days he made for them aimless songs such as maidens sing on the hills in the older happier countries.

Then he went to some of that nation as they sat weary with the work of the day and said to them: "I have made you some aimless songs out of the small unreasonable legends, that are somewhat akin to the wind in the vales of my childhood; and you may care to sing them in your disconsolate evenings."

And they said to him:

"If you think we have time for that sort of nonsense nowadays you cannot know much of the progress of modern commerce."

And the poet wept for he said: "Alas! They are damned."

Enney Marranagh

As Foaynoo shooyl ayns ard-valley ‘syn ‘astyr, honnick ee eddin daahghit Imraaghys jannoo mooar jee hene fo lostan gas, as shimmey peiagh v’er e ghlioonyn roee er laagh yn ‘traid.

“Quoi uss?” as Foaynoo roee.

“She mish Foaynoo,” as Imraaghys.

Eisht heel ersooyl Foaynoo dy kiune gyn peiagh erbee cur geill.

As lurg tammylt hie magh Imraaghys, as dirree ny h-ooashleyderyn as eiyrt urree; as leeid ee ad, dy kiart as cooie, da’n Ooig ghooie eck.

Notey: Ta'n skeeal shoh ry-gheddyn myr skeeal clashtynagh lhaiht aym pene: recortys MP3

A Mistaken Identity

Fame as she walked at evening in a city saw the painted face of Notoriety flaunting beneath a gas-lamp, and many kneeled unto her in the dirt of the road.

"Who are you?" Fame said to her.

"I am Fame," said Notoriety.

Then Fame stole softly away so that no one knew she had gone.

And Notoriety presently went forth and all her worshippers rose and followed after, and she led them, as was most meet, to her native Pit.

Dooinney ny Fainnaghyn-Cleayshey Airhey

She ashlish v’ayn, foddee. Shoh ny ta fondagh—hyndaa mee laa dy row ass jingey caayrey, as roshtyn ny cabbagyn as fakin keiyghyn shliawin goll sheese ‘syn ushtey dy eaynagh as geayney, as fakin yn awin lheeah ‘oawragh snaue my haghey as ny reddyn cailltey aynjee sheer-chassey, as smooinee mee er ashoonyn as Traa neuerreeishagh, as fakin as goaill yindys jeh ny lhongyn reinoil noa er jeet veih’n cheayn.

By eisht eh, mannagh vel marranys orrym, honnick mee fer lieh-lhie er boalley as jeeaghyn rish ny lhongyn, dooinney as fainnaghyn cleayshey airhey echey. Va blass dorraghey fir ny jiass er: va renaigyn deyll-ghoo e farveeal er ngiallaghey beggan ec sollan; v’eh ceau jaggad gorrym dorraghey myr ta marrinee ceau, as bootsyn lhiennoo shiaulteyr; agh va’n tooill echey jeeaghyn ny sodjey na ny lhongyn, myr dy chronnee eh ny reddyn sodjey hene.

Eer tra loayr mee rish cha hayrn erash eh y jeeaghyn shen, agh dreggyr eh mish fo’n vlakey soit cheddin myr dy row e smooinaght freayney er faarkaghyn foddey lomarcan. Denee mee jeh cre’n lhong haink eh er; shimmey lhong v’ayns shen. Va ny lhongyn shiauill ayn, as ny shiauill oc fillit as ny cruin oc jeeragh as kiune, myr keyll yeuree ; va ny gaaltanyn ayn, as laineyryn mooarey heid jaagh liastey seose ‘syn aer conghorraghey. Dreggyr eh nagh daink eh er fer erbee jeu. Denee mee jeh cre’n colught v’eh gobbraghey ayn, as eh ny hiaulteyr dy baghtal; dimraa mee enmyn mie er enney, agh cha row enney echeysyn orroo. Eisht denee mee jeh c’raad v’eh gobbraghey as cre’n obbyr v’echey. As dooyrt eh: “Ta mee gobbragh’ ayns Mooir yn Amlee, as she mish fer s’jerree ny roosteyryn marrey, y fer s’jerree ta faagit bio.” As chrie mee e laue reesht as reeshtagh. Dooyrt mee: “Va aggle orrin dy row shiu marroo. Va aggle orrin dy row shiu marroo.” As dreggyr eh dy trimshagh: “Cha nel. Cha nel. Ren mee peccaghyn ro-hrome er y wooir Spaainagh: cha nel eh lhiggit dou baase y gheddyn.”

The Man With The Golden Ear-Rings

It may be that I dreamed this. So much at least is certain—that I turned one day from the traffic of a city, and came to its docks and saw its slimy wharves going down green and steep into the water, and saw the huge grey river slipping by and the lost things that went with it turning over and over, and I thought of the nations and unpitying Time, and saw and marvelled at the queenly ships come newly from the sea.

It was then, if I mistake not, that I saw leaning against a wall, with his face to the ships, a man with golden ear-rings. His skin had the dark tint of the southern men: the deep black hairs of his moustache were whitened a little with salt; he wore a dark blue jacket such as sailors wear, and the long boots of seafarers, but the look in his eyes was further afield than the ships, he seemed to be beholding the farthest things.

Even when I spoke to him he did not call home that look, but answered me dreamily with that same fixed stare as though his thoughts were heaving on far and lonely seas. I asked him what ship he had come by, for there were many there. The sailing ships were there with their sails all furled and their masts straight and still like a wintry forest; the steamers were there, and great liners, puffing up idle smoke into the twilight. He answered he had come by none of them. I asked him what line he worked on, for he was clearly a sailor; I mentioned well-known lines, but he did not know them. Then I asked him where he worked and what he was. And he said: “I work in the Sargasso Sea, and I am the last of the pirates, the last left alive.” And I shook him by the hand I do not know how many times. I said: “We feared you were dead. We feared you were dead.” And he answered sadly: “No. No. I have sinned too deeply on the Spanish seas: I am not allowed to die.”

Y Kione-Reiltagh as y 'Treebagh

Myr haghyr eh, ren kione reiltagh as streebagh roshtyn giat Niau rish y cheilley. As yeeagh y Noo orroo dy trimshagh.

“Cre’n fa dy nee kione reiltagh uss?” as eh, rish y chied jeu.

“Er yn oyr,” as y kione reiltagh, “dy hass mee er ny prinsabyllyn hene t’er nyn ngiaddey as t’er nyannoo y Partee ennoil ayns cree yn theay. Dy yannoo skeeal giare jeh, hass mee, gyn lhiggey lesh, my haghter y theay.”

“As uss?” denee y Noo jeeish jeh’n demi-monde.

“Va mee laccal argid,” as ish.

As erreish da thurrick smooinaghtagh dooyrt y Noo: “Wahll, tar stiagh; ga nagh vel oo dy hoilçhin.”

Agh da’n chione reiltagh dooyrt eh: “S’treih lhien dy firrinagh gra dy vel y reamys beg ain as genney mee-aighar anaase ayns ny Feyshtyn ta shiu er chur wheesh niart dyn broo stiagh ayns king y theay as er nyn bohlldey cho oalagh ‘sy traa t’er ngoll shaghey, nyn lhiettal veih cur diu y cooney ta shiu shirrey er.”

As ghooin eh y dorrys airhey.

The Demagogue and the Demi-Monde

A demagogue and a demi-mondaine chanced to arrive together at the gate of Paradise. And the Saint looked sorrowfully at them both.

“Why were you a demagogue?” he said to the first.

“Because,” said the demagogue, “I stood for those principles that have made us what we are and have endeared our Party to the great heart of the people. In a word I stood unflinchingly on the plank of popular representation.”

“And you?” said the Saint to her of the demi-monde.

“I wanted money,” said the demi-mondaine.

And after some moments’ thought the Saint said: “Well, come in; though you don't deserve to.”

But to the demagogue he said: “We genuinely regret that the limited space at our disposal and our unfortunate lack of interest in those Questions that you have gone so far to inculate and have so ably upheld in the past, prevent us from giving you the support for which you seek.”

And he shut the golden door.

(c) 2007-11 John Shimmin. Dagh kiart tashtit; cha nel mee credjal dy vel erbee aym, agh er aggle ny haggle.