I've been looking for the Oxford book of Welsh verse, the old one that has the original poems in Welsh along with English translations. The only one I've seen was in an old library while traveling years ago. The newer versions don't include the poems in Welsh, which I'm studying.
Does this book include poems in Irish?
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Yr hen Gymraeg i mi, Hon ydyw iaith teimladau, Ac adlais i guriadau Fy nghalon ydyw hi --- Mynyddog
Unfortunately no, all the poems have been translated into english. I would love to have a copy of it or another poetry book that is in Irish, in case anybody out there knows where I can get one.
This poem is attributed to Colum Cille (St. Columba) who was a priest trained by St. Finian and was exiled to Alba from Doire (Derry) for starting a war with another priest over a psalm. He vowed to bring an equal amount of souls to Christ to match those that lost their lives in the war. He established the monastery in Iona, and established Christianity in Alba.
If I owned all of Alba entire, from shore to shore, I would rather my chosen place on the plain of gentle Doire.
The reasons I love Doire: its calmness, its purity and the number of white angels from one end to the other!
There is not a single leaf in Doire, so full and fine, but has two virgin angels going with every leaf.
I could find no place on earth so full of pure fine angels! No more than nine waves' distance would I choose to go from Doire.
I am sad for the tearful cries from the two shores of Loch Febail: the cries of Conall and Eogan lamenting as I left.
Since I bound me to those brothers (now I will tell my secret) I swear not a night will pass but this eye will shed a tear.
Cut away from the men of Ireland in whom my regard is fixed --I care not, after that, if my life last but one night.
I am Irish, and I owe my honour to Irishmen, my learning to Irishmen and to Irishmen my beauty.
O the outcry that I hear --how is it I am still alive? The great cry of Doire's people has broken my heart in four.
Our Doire, with all its acorns, sad, spiritless, sunk in tears: it hurts my heart to leave it and toward alien people.
That beloved woodland --and I driven, loveless, away. Great woe to Niall's women my banishment, and to his men.
Dire is my currach's speed and its stern turned toward Doire, a drear journey on the high sea sailing for the shores of Alba.
The seagulls of Loch Febail before me and behind me do not fly near my currach. We are parting in misery.
My foot on the humming currach, my heart in woe, and weeping, a man of no skill, exhausted, ignorant and blind.
I stare back across the sea at the plain of plentiful oaks, my clear grey in tears seeing Ireland fall behind me.
There is a grey eye fixed on Ireland in goodbye. Never shall it see again women of Ireland, or her men.
Morning and noon I lament the journey I make, alas. My name--let me make a riddle: 'A Back Turned on Ireland'.
Iona I behold: God bless every eye that sees it. That man who minds his friend minds himself thereby.
Take my blessing with you westward. My heart breaks in my side. Death will come, if it comes, through my love for the men of Ireland.
It is said that that western land is of Earth the best, that land called by name 'Scotia' in the ancient books: an island rich in goods, jewels, cloth, and gold, benign to the body, mellow in soil and air. The plains of lovely Ireland flow with honey and milk. There are clothers and fruit and arms and at in plenty; no bears in ferocity there, nor any lions, for the land of Ireland never bore their seed. No poisons pain, no snakes slide in the grass, nor does the chattering frog groan on the lake.
And a people dwell in that land who deserve their home, a people renowned in war and peace and faith.
Jonathan Swift The Description of an Irish Feast, translated almost literally out of the original Irish.
O Rourk's noble fare Will ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, Or those who were not. His revels to keep, We sup and we dine, On seven score sheep, Fat bullocks and swine. Usquebagh to our feast In pails was brought up, An hundred at least, And a madder our cup. O there is the sport, We rise with the light, In disorderly sort, From snoring all night. O how was I trick'd, My pipe it was broke, My pocket was pick'd, I lost my new cloak. I'm rifled, quoth Nell, Of mantle and kercher, Why then fare them well, The De'il take the searcher. Come, harper, strike up, But first by your favour, Boy, give us a cup; Ay, this has some savour: O rourk's jolly boys Ne'er dreamt of the matter, Till rous'd by the noise, And musical clatter, They bounce from their nest, No longer will tarry, They rise ready dressed, Without one Ave Mary. They dance in a round, Cutting capers and ramping, A mercy the ground Did not burst with their stamping. The floor is all wet With leaps and with jumps, While the water and sweat, Splish, splash in their pumps. Bless you late and early, Laughlin O Enagin, By my hand, you dance rarelym Margery Grinagin. Bring straw for our bed, Shake it down to the feet, Then over us spread, The winnowing sheet. To showm I don't flinch, Fill the bowl up again, Then give us a pinch Of your sneezing; a Yean. Good Lord, what a sight, After all their good cheer, For people to fight In the midst of their beer: They rise from their feast, And hot are their brains, A cubit at least The length of their skeans. What stabs and what cuts, What clatt'ring of sticks, What strokes on the guts, What bastings and kicks! With cudgels of oak, Well harden'd in flame, An hundred heads broke, An hundred struck lame. You churl, I'll maintain My father built Lusk, The castle of Slane, And Carrickdrumrusk: The Earl of Kildare, And Moynalta, his brother, As great as they are, I was nurs'd by their mother. Ask that of old Madam, She'll tell you who's who, As far up as Adam, She knows it is true, Come down with that beam, If cudgels are scarce, A blow on the weam, Or a kick on the arse.
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