ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE, NUMBER I.
Reading edition
The ancient literature of Ireland is as yet but little known to the world, or even to ourselves. Existing for the most part only in its original Celtic form, and in manuscripts accessible only to the Irish scholar resident in our metropolis, but few even of those capable of understanding it have the opportunity to become acquainted with it, and from all others it is necessarily hidden. We therefore propose to ourselves, as a pleasing task, to make our literature more familiar, not only to the Irish scholar, but to our readers generally who do not possess this species of knowledge, by presenting them from time to time with such short poems or prose articles, accompanied with translations, as from their brevity, or the nature of their subjects, will render them suitable to our limited and necessarily varied pages—our selections being made without regard to chronological order as to the ages of their composition, but rather with a view to give a general idea of the several kinds of literature in which our ancestors of various classes found entertainment.
The specimen which we have chosen to commence with is of a homely cast, and was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three cows. Its author’s name is unknown, but its age may be determined, from its language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century; and that it was formerly very popular in Munster, may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, Easy, oh, woman of the three cows! [Go réiḋ a bhean na ttrí mbó] has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of proud or boastful persons.
P.
BEAN NA TTRI MBO.
Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó Ar to ḃólacht ná bí teann Do ċonairc meisi, gan gó, Gean is ba dá ṁó a beann. Ní ṁaireann saiḋḃrios do ġnúiṫ Do neaċ ná taḃair táir go mór Chúġut an téag ar gaċ taoḃ Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. Slioċt Eóġain ṁóir sa Múṁain A nimṫeaċt do ní clú dóiḃ A seólta gur léigeadar síos Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. Clann ġaisce ṫiġearna an Chláir A nimṫeaċt sin ba lá leóin Sgan súil re na tteaċt go bráṫ, Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. Dóṁnall ó Dún-buíḋe na long O’Súilleaḃáin nár ṫím glór Féaċ gur ṫuit san Spáin re cloiḋeain Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. O’Ruairc is Maguiḋir do ḃí Tá i n-Eirinn na lán beóil Féaċ féin gur imṫiġ an dís, Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. Síol gCearḃuill do ḃí teann Te mbeirṫí gaċ geall ingleó Ní ṁaireann aon díoḃ mo ḋíṫ Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó. O aon ḃoin aṁáin do ḃreis Ar ṁnaoi eile is í a dó Do rinnisi iomorca aréir Go réiḋ a ḃean na ttrí mbó.
An ceangal.
Gíoḋ ar mfallaing a ainnir as uaiḃreaċ gnúis Do ḃíos gan dearmad seasṁaċ buan sa tnúiṫ Tríd an raċmus do ġlacais red ḃuaiḃ ar túis Da ḃfaġainnsi reilḃ a ceaṫair do ḃuailfinn tú.
C.
THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE.
O, Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don’t let your tongue thus rattle! O, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen—and, here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true— A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser, For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser, And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows! See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants, ’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows! The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning— Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows! O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted— See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse— Then, ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows! O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story— Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory— Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three Cows! The O’Carrolls also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows! Your neighbour’s poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because, inagh![1] you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, than she has, That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows, But, if you are strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!
THE SUMMING UP.
Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I’m too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I’m wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I’d thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
M.