Anglo-Saxon, Norse & Celtic

Cúirt an Mheon-Oíche le Brian Merríman (ed. Liam P. Ó Murchú (An Clóchomhar Tta, Baile Átha Cliath 1982), pp. 23-25, lines 167-246)

MÍLE fáilte is gardas cléibh romhad
’Aoibheall, ’fháidhbhean ársa ón Léithchraig,
A shoilse an lae ’s a ré gan choimse,
A shaibhreas saolta i ngéibheann daoirse,
A cheannasach bhuach ó shluaite an aoibhnis,
B’easnamh cruaidh thu i dTuamhain ’s i dTír Luirc.
Cúis mo cháis is fáth m chaointe,
Cúis do chráigh me is d’fhág me cloíte,
Bhain dom threoir me is sheoil gan chiall me,
Chaith mar cheo me dóite pianta—
Na sluaite imíos gan chríoch gan chaomhnadh
Ar fuaid an tsaoil seo d’fhíorscoth béithe
Ina gcailleacha dubha gan cumhdach céile
Caite gan clú gan cionta claoinbhirt.

Is aithnid dom féin sa méid seo ’om shiúlta
Bean agus céad nár mhéin leo a dhiúltadh,
Is mise ina measc, mo chreach mar taimse,
D’imigh ’na spaid gan fear gan pháiste.
Mo dhochar, mo dhó, mo bhrón mar bhíom
Gan sochar gan seoid gan só gan síth
Go doilbhir duaiseach duamhar díoch
Gan codladh gan suan gan suairceas oíche,
Acht maslaithe i mbuairt gan suaimhneas sínte
Ar leabain leamh fhuar dár suaitheadh ag smaointe.

A Cháidh na Carraige breathain go bíogthach
Mná na Banba in anacra suíte,
Ar nós má leanaid na fearaibh dá bhfuadar
Ó, mo lagar, acht caithfeamna a bhfuadach.
Is é am ’nar mhéin leo céile a phósadh
An t-am nár mhéin le éinne góil leo,
An t-am nárbh fhiú bheith fúthu sínte,
Seandaigh thamhanda shúite chloíte.

Dá dtuiteadh amach le teas na hóige
Duine fán seacht ar theacht féasóige
Cheangal le mnaoi, ní míntais thoghfaidh,
Thaitneamhach shuíte ‘o shíol ná d’fhoghlaim,
Clódheas chaoin ná míonla mhánla
A mb’eol di suí nó tíocht do láthair,
Acht doineantach odhar nó donn doilíosach
Chruinnigh le doghrainn cabhair nách cuí dho.

Is é chráigh mo chroí is do scaoil gan chéill me
Is d’fhág mo smaointe is m’intinn traochta,
Tráite tinn mar taoim go tréithlag,
Cásmhar cloíte ag caoi is ag géarghol—
An uair chím preabaire calma croíúil,
Fuadrach fearamhail baramhail bríomhar,
Stuama feasamhach seasmhach saoithiúil,
Gruadheas greannmhar geanamhail gnaíúil,
Nó buachaill bastalach beachanta bróigdheas,
Cruacheart ceannasach ceapaithe córach—
Buaite ceannaithe ceangailte pósta
Ag fuaid, ag cailligh, ag aimid, nó ag óinmhid,
Nó ag suairle salach do chaile gan tionscal,
Stuacach stailiceach aithiseach stúncach,
Suaiteach sodalach foclach fáidhiúil,
Cuardach codlatach goirgeach gráiniúil.

Mo chreach is mo lot, tá molt míbhéasach,
Caile na gcos is folt gan réiteach,
Dá ceangal anocht ’s é loisc go léir me
Is cá bhfuil mo locht na toifí réimpi ?
Créad an t-abhar ná tabhairfí grá dhom
Is mé comh leabhair comh modhamhail, comh breá so ?
Is deas mo bhéal, mo dhéad ’s mo gháire,
Is geal mo ghné is tá m’éadan tláith tais,
Is glas mo shúil, tá m’urla scáinneach,
Bachallach búclach cúplach fáinneach,
Mo leaca is mo ghnúis gan smúid gan smáchal,
Tarraingte cumtha lonrach scáfar,
Mo phíob, mo bhráid, mo lámha ’s mo mhéaraibh
Ag síorbhreith barr na háille ó chéile.

Féach mo chom, nách leabhair mo chnámha,
Níl me lom ná crom ná stágach,
Seo toll is cosa agus colann nách nár liom
Is an togha go socair fá cover ná tráchtaim.
Ní suairle caile ná sreangaire mná me
Acht stuaire cailce tá taitneamhach breá deas.
Ní sraoill ná sluid ná luid gan fáscadh
Ná smíste duirc gan sult gan sásamh,
Lóiste lofa ná toice gan éifeacht
Acht óigbhean scofa comh tofa is is féidir.

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.

‘A thousand welcomes and joy of heart to you
Aoibheall, you ancient prophetess from Craglea,
O light of day and unlimitable life,
you treasure born here into a prison of unfreedom,
you, victorious leader from the hosts of delight,
you have been sorely missed in Thomond and in Ireland.
The matter of my concern, the reason for my keening,
the cause which has agonized me and left me thrown down,
has led me astray and driven me crazy,
has worn me to a wisp, burned and pained—
the crowds of finest women throughout this world
who are left unfulfilled and uncherished,
as gloomy hags without a husband’s protection,
cast aside without reputation and guiltless of any crooked crime.

It is clear to me myself having travelled so much around
that there are a hundred and one women who wouldn’t refuse it,
and there’s me among them, in this pitiful condition,
a reject of a woman without a man or child.
My loss, my pain, my sorrow, as we are,
without benefit or possession, comfort or peace,
gloomy, dejected, troubled, needy
without sleep or rest or joy at night,
but insulted in sorrow, with no peace of mind, stretched out
on a dead cold bed beset by fantasies.

Venerable woman of Craglea, observe sharply
the women of Ireland in extreme difficulty,
in that if the men continue in their present behaviour,
with no other way out, we’ll have to abduct them!
The time they wish to marry a wife is
the time when no one would wish to go with them,
when it wouldn’t be worth being stretched under them -
aged, weakened, dried up, worn-out wrecks.

If it happened in the heat of youth
that one man in seven at the sprouting of his beard
would tie up with a woman, it isn’t a tender young girl he’ll choose,
one pleasant, of proper breeding and upbringing,
a fair-faced maiden, refined and gentle, gracious
who would know how to sit and present herself in public,
but instead, a cheerless thing, gloomy, dull or melancholic
Who gathered with pain a dowry that’s no good to him.

What has tormented my heart and left me senseless,
has left my thoughts and my mind worn out,
drained away, sick, and exhausted as I am,
complaining, weak, crying out and weeping—
is when I see a dashing fellow, brave and hearty,
active, manly, assertive, energetic,
sensible, knowledgeable, steady and wise,
fine-faced, humorous, loveable, comely,
or a boy, merry, buzzing, well-heeled,
upright and tough, commanding, well-shaped, well-clothed—
when I see him won over, bought off, tied down and married
to some left-over, some stupid thing, a witch or an idiot,
or to a dirty slattern of an idle girl,
sulky, stubborn, shameful, peevish,
agitating, arrogant, verbose, gossiping,
self-seeking, sleepy, harsh and hateful.

Tis my ruin and my misfortune that there’s an impudent bitch,
a spindle-shanked crone of the unkempt hair,
being married tonight and it has burnt me through
and where’s my fault that I’m not chosen before her?
What is the reason that I wouldn’t be loved,
Me so slender, so modest, so excellent?
Lovely my mouth, my teeth, and my smile,
I look so bright, and my brow is tender, soft,
grey-blue is my eye, curled is my hair,
waved and ringleted, entwined and adorned.
My cheek and my face without cloud and crudeness,
elongated, well-shaped, bright, and bashful,
my neck, my bosom, my hands, my fingers
forever outdoing each other for beauty’s prize.

Look at my waist and my frame so slender,
I’m not thin or bent or lame.
Here’s bum and legs and flesh by no means shameful
and the choice bit nicely under cover that I won’t mention.
I’m no slattern of a girl or stringy bit of a woman,
but a fair-skinned beauty, who is pleasant, good looking and friendly.
I’m no streel nor left over thing, nor untidy strap,
no sullen lump, humourless and unhappy,
no rotten hoor nor vigorless young wan,
but a polished young woman as choice as is possible.