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> The Oxford Book Of Irish Verse
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MacDonnchaidh 
Posted: 14-Mar-2009, 04:54 PM
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I'm not a connoisseur of poetry, but I found this book recently and I figured someone in CelticRadioLand profile_location.gif would enjoy some of these.

First of Summer, By Anonymous

First of summer, lovely sight,
season of perfection!
At the slightest ray the sun sends
blackbirds sing their full song.

The hardy vigorous cuckoocalls
all hail to high summer.
The bitter weather is abated
when the branched woods were torn.

Summer dries the stream down small,
the swift herd searches for a pool.
Heather spreads its hair afar.
The pale bog-cotton, faint, flourishes.

Buds break out on the hawthorn bush.
The sea runs its calm course
--the salt sea the season soothes.
Blossom blankets the world.

Bees' feet, with tiny strength,
carry their bundles, sucked from blossom.
The hill-fields call to the cattle.
Ants are active in swarming plenty.

The woods' harp works its music;
the harmony brings total peace.
Dust blows out of all our houses,
haze blows from the brimming lake.

The sturdy corncrake-poet speaks.
The cold cataract calls its greeting
down to the warm pool from on high.
Rushes begin to rustle.

Slim swallows flash on high:
Living music rings the hill.
Moist fruits grow fat and heavy.
. . . the marsh . . .

. . . the lovely marsh:
grass in a fine, packed path.
The speckled fish makes a leap
at the swift fly -- worthy warriors.

Man thrives: all things flourish.
The great slopes are full of gifts.
Each forest glade is shining bright
and bright each broad and lovely plain.

The whole season full of wonder:
Winter's harsh wind is gone.
The fruitful woods are fair.
Summer is a great ease.

A flock of birds settles to earth:
they have seen a woman there.
The green field echoes
where a stream runs brisk and bright.

Horse riding; wild ardour;
ranked hosts ranged around.
Tree-white freed across the land,
giving up an iris-gold!

A delicate and timorous thing
is singing ceaseless in the air,
and rightly, from a full throat:
'First of summer, lovely sight!'


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Glory is the Reward of Valour ~ Robertson Motto

For Faith, For Service to Humanity ~ Knights Hospitaller Motto

Am fear is tiuighe clairgeann se s lugha eanchainn.
He who has the thickest skull has the smallest brain.
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Harlot 
Posted: 14-Mar-2009, 05:09 PM
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Thank You for posting this ,now I really can't wait til Spring gets here because after that comes Summer my two favorite seasons. wub.gif


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Antwn 
Posted: 15-Mar-2009, 03:04 PM
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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?


--------------------
Yr hen Gymraeg i mi,
Hon ydyw iaith teimladau,
Ac adlais i guriadau
Fy nghalon ydyw hi
--- Mynyddog
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MacDonnchaidh 
Posted: 15-Mar-2009, 03:31 PM
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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.
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stoirmeil 
Posted: 15-Mar-2009, 06:43 PM
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http://english.chass.ncsu.edu/freeverse/Ar...gnal_Irish.html
here are some in Irish, very good stuff, modern.

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MacDonnchaidh 
Posted: 16-Mar-2009, 01:18 PM
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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.
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MacDonnchaidh 
Posted: 19-Mar-2009, 10:45 AM
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QUOTE (stoirmeil @ 15-Mar-2009, 07:43 PM)
http://english.chass.ncsu.edu/freeverse/Ar...gnal_Irish.html
here are some in Irish, very good stuff, modern.

Thanks for the link stoirmeil.

Nice short poem, by Donatus c.829-876

The Land Called Scotia

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.
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MacDonnchaidh 
Posted: 22-Mar-2009, 03:20 PM
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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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