Modern Irish - Cúirt an Mheon-Oíche (Man's Monologue)
The Midnight Court
Cúirt an Mheon-Oíche le Brian Merríman (ed. Liam P. Ó Murchú (An Clóchomhar Tta, Baile Átha Cliath 1982), pp. 28-30, lines 357-426).
PREABANN anuas go fuadrach fíochmhar
Seanduine suarach is fuadach nimhe fé,
A bhaill ar luascadh is luais anáile air,
Draighean is duais ar fuaid a chnámha,
Ba dearóil an radhairc go deimhin don chúirt é,
Ar bord ’na thaibhse im eisteacht dúirt sé:
‘DOCHAR is díobháil is síorchrá cléibh ort,
A thoice le místáid ’o shíol gá is déirce.
Is dóch nách iongantas laigeacht na gréine
Is fós gach tubaist dár imigh ar Éire,
Mar mheath gach ceart gan reacht gan dlí againn,
Ár mba bhí bleacht gan lacht gan laoigh acu,
Is dá dtagadh níos mó do mhóirscrios tíortha
Is gach faisean dá nócht ar Mhóir ’s ar Shíle.
A thoice gan chríoch nách cuimhin le táinte
Olcas na síolrach daoine ó dtáingis,
Gan focal le maíomh id shinsear gránna
Acht lopaigh gan bhrí, lucht míre is mála.
Is aithne dhúinne an snamhaire is athair dhuit,
Gan charaid gan chlú gan chúl gan airgead
’Na leibide liath gan chiall gan mhúnadh,
Gan mheidir gan mhias gan bhia gan anlann,
Gan faice ar a dhrom ’s a chabhail gan cóta
Acht gad ar a chom ’s a bhonn gan bróga.
Creididh, a dhaoine, dhá ndíoltaí ar aonach
Eisean ’s a bhuíon, tar éis íoc gach éilimh,
Dar colann na naoimh ba dícheall muar dho
Pota maith dí lena fhuílleach d’fhuascailt.
Nách muar an tóbhacht ’s an gleo i measc daoine
Truaire ’od shórt gan bhó gan chaora,
Búclaí id bhróga is clóicín síoda ort
Is ciarsúir póca ag góil na gaoithe ort,
Dallair an saol go léir led thaibhse,
Is aithnid dom féin tu ar dtaobh le caidhpe.
Is deacair dhom labhairt, do lom is léir dhom,
Is fada do dhrom gan cabhair ón léine,
Is togha drochdhuine do thuigfeadh ’na gá thu
Is feabhas do rufa led mhuinthirle cáimric.
Tá canbhás saor chum sraod go bhásta
Is cá bhfios don saol nach Stays é ’ot fháscadh,
Feiceann an tír ort frinse is fáinne
Is ceileann do laimhinne grís is gága.
Acht aithris ar bord nó inneosad féin é,
An fada nár ól tú deoir led bhéile?
A chonartaigh bhoicht na gcos gan ionladh,
Dochar id chorp le Bucks gan anlann.
Is furas dar liom dod chúl bheith taibhseach,
Chonarc lem shúile an chúil ‘na loigheann tú:
Garbh ná mín ní síntear fúd ann,
Barrach ná líon dár sníomhadh le tuirne,
Acht mata ’na smuirt gan chuilt gan chlúdadh,
Dealamh gan luid gan phluid gan tsúsa,
I gcomhar bhotháin gan áit chum suí ann,
Sú sileáin is fáscadh aníos ann,
Fiaile ag teacht go fras gan choimse
Is rian na gcearc air trasna scríofa,
Lag ina dhrom is na gabhla ag lúbadh
Is clagarnach dhonn go trom ag tuirlingt.
A Chumainn na bhFáidh nách ard do labhair sí,
Gustalach gálbhach gártha ghabhann sí
I ndathaibh i gcóir ’s i gclóca síoda,
Faire go deo arú! fóill cár fríodh é?
Aithris cá bhfaigheann tú an radharc so mhaíonn tú
Is aithris cár thuill tú an leadhb gan bhrí seo?
Is deacair a shuíomh gur fríodh go cóir iad,
Is gairid ó bhís gan síol an orlaigh.
Aithris cá bhfuair tú luach do húda
Is aithris cá bhfuair tú luach do ghúna,
Acht leagaimíd uainn mar ghluais an cóta
Is aithris cá bhfuair tú luach na mbróga?
Dr. Liam P Ó Murchú’s translation conveys the literal sense and syntax of the Irish. It is adapted from the 'syntactical translation' which Ó Murchú prepared for the Japanese edition published in 2015. For the earliest English translation see Ó Murchú, Cúirt an Mheon-Oíche, pp. 85-105.
Up jumps in a furious rush,
A wretched old man in a venomous dart,
His limbs waving, he’s puffing and panting,
Anger and distress throughout his frame,
He was a miserable sight indeed at the court,
At the bench, ghostlike, in my hearing he said:
‘Harm and damage and eternal agony of heart to you,
You degenerate thing, from the progeny of want and charity.
It’s likely that the sun’s decline is no surprise,
And yet each calamity which has befallen Ireland,
How every right of ours has withered, we lack statute and law,
Our cows which were milk-yielding (are) dry without calves
And if further destruction of lands were to come,
Seeing that Mór and Síle flaunt the latest in every fashion.
You useless slattern, aren’t we all aware of the bad breed of people from which you came?
Not a word to boast about in your ugly forebears
But idlers without substance, men of scraps and bags.
Without friend, reputation, support or money,
A grey-haired fool lacking sense and manners,
Without a pail or a dish or food or sauce,
Not a stitch on his back and his frame without a coat,
But a rope around his middle and his feet without shoes.
Believe me, my good people, if he were sold at a fair,
He and his gang, after paying every demand,
By the bodies of the saints (I swear), it would be a great effort for him
A good pot of drink to buy with his change.
How great a commotion and a racket among people
is a wretch the likes of you without a cow or a sheep,
Buckles in your shoes and a silken cloak on you,
And a pocket-handkerchief blowing in the wind about you,
You dazzle the whole world with your ostentation,
I know myself that you once wore a coif.
It’s hard for me to speak, your poverty is so clear to me,
Long has your back been without the help of a shift,
And ’tis only the lowest person who would know that you lack it,
Considering the fine quality of your ruff on your cambric sleeve.
Canvas is cheap to make a bodice to your waist,
And who knows that you haven't stays keeping you squeezed in?
The world sees fringe and ring on you,
But your gloves conceal rash and chapping.
But relate at the bench, or I’ll tell it myself,
How long is it since you had something to drink with your meal?
You wretched pauper of the unwashed feet
May those meals of Bucks with nothing else damage your innards.
It’s easy, I think, for your tied-up hair to be glamorous,
But I’ve seen with my own eyes the corner in which you lie,
Coarse nor fine there isn’t spread beneath you,
Tow nor linen spun on a wheel,
But a mud-covered mat without a quilt without a cover,
Bare without a rag, a blanket or a rug,
Sharing a hovel without a place for sitting,
Dripping soot from above, oozing wet from below,
Weeds coming thickly unchecked,
And the hens’ track on it is written across,
weak in its roof-ridge and the gables bending,
And clattering brown rain heavily descending.
O Assembly of the Seers, how loudly she spoke,
Pompously and haughtily and loudly she goes
In colours, in clothes and silken cloak,
But my shame, alas, where was it all got?
Tell where you get this look that you boast of?
And tell where you earned this useless strip of kerchief?
It’s hard to argue that they were got properly,
It isn’t long since you hadn’t the seed to sow a square inch.
Tell where you got the money for your hood
And tell where you got the money for your dress?
But let’s put aside where the petticoat came from,
And tell where you got the money for the brogues?
