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Summer

This poem is from Aígidecht Aithirni, or ‘The Guesting of Athirne.’ Athirne was a satirist and poet of the Ulaid, who, in this tale, went to stay with his foster-son for a night but got delayed each time he attempted to leave. The tale is preserved in three different manuscripts, and are of varying lengths and detail. Four of the poems detail the good things about a particular season.

Fó sín smarad síthaister,
sám fid forard dorglide
nach fet gaíthe glúaiss;
Glass clúm caille clithaige,
cerba srotha saebuisci,
sén i fótán fó.

Summer is a fine season for long journeys,
Calm is the high, choice wood
that no breath of wind stirs.
Green is the plumage of the sheltering wood,
streams of wandering water are dried up,
there is a good omen in the fine turf.

From A Golden Treasury of Irish Poetry A.D. 600 to 1200, edited and translated by David Greene and Frank O’Connor, pp142-143.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Seasonal Quatrain: Bealtaine

This quatrain, one of four, is preserved in two separate manuscripts (Bodleian codex Rawlinson B. 512, folio 98b, 2, and the British Museum MS. Harleian 5280, folio 35b, 2), both dating to the sixteenth century. The quatrain has clearly been copied from the same source in both manuscripts, and based on the linguistic evidence, it appears the quatrain goes back to an original composition from around the eighth century. 

Atberim frib, lith saine,
ada buada belltaine:
coirm, mecoin, suabais serig,
ocus urgruth do tenid.
I tell to you, a special festival,
The glorious dues of May:
Ale, worts, sweet whey,
And fresh curds to the fire.

From Kuno Meyer, Anecdota Oxoniensia: Medieval and Modern Series (Part 8), 1894, p49.

 
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Posted by on April 19, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Summer has Come

I could hardly post one without the other…

Summer has come, healthy and free,
Whence the brown wood is aslope;
The slender nimble deer leap.
And the path of seals is smooth.

The cuckoo sings sweet music.
Whence there is smooth restful sleep;
Gentle birds leap upon the hill.
And swift grey stags.

Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer-
The lovely cry of curly packs!
The white extent of the strand smiles,
There the swift sea is.

A sound of playful breezes in the tops
Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill,
The noble hornless herd runs.
To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.

Green bursts out on every herb.
The top of the green oakwood is bushy.
Summer has come, winter has gone,
Twisted hollies wound the hound.

The blackbird sings a loud strain.
To him the live wood is a heritage,
The sad angry sea is fallen asleep.
The speckled salmon leaps.

The sun smiles over every land, —
A parting for me from the brood of cares
Hounds bark, stags tryst.
Ravens flourish, summer has come !

Kuno Meyer, Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry, 1911, p52.

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Song of Summer

A wonderful Bealltainn to you all! Whether or not you’re celebrating just now, or will do at a later date, I hope you have a good one. And if you’re in the southern hemisphere, then I hope you’re having a good Samhainn instead (if you reverse your celebrations to match the seasons).

This is a wonderful poem translated by the prolific translator Kuno Meyer, and it is attributed to Fionn mac Cumhail himself. The Irish is available here!

Summer-time, season supreme!
Splendid is colour then.
Blackbirds sing a full lay
If there be a slender shaft of day.

The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud:
Welcome, splendid summer!
The bitterness of bad weather is past.
The boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Panic startles the heart of the deer.
The smooth sea runs apace —
Season when ocean sinks asleep.
Blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry
A goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms;
Up the mountain-side kine take with them mud,
The ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music,
The sail gathers — perfect peace;
Colour has settled on every height.
Haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses.
The lofty cold waterfall sings
A welcome to the warm pool —
The talk of the rushes has come.

Light swallows dart aloft.
Loud melody encircles the hill,
The soft rich mast buds.
The stuttering quagmire prattles.

The peat-bog is as the raven’s coat,
The loud cuckoo bids welcome,
The speckled fish leaps —
Strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds
In her fair strong pride.
Perfect each forest from top to ground.
Perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season’s splendour,
Rough winter has gone:
Every fruitful wood shines white,
A joyous peace is summer.

A flock of birds settles
In the midst of meadows,
The green field rustles.
Wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses.
The ranked host is ranged around:
A bright shaft has been shot into the land.
So that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow
Sings at the top of his voice,
The lark sings clear tidings:
Surpassing summer-time of delicate hues!

Kuno Meyer, Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry, 1911, p53-54.

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Cormac Og

I

The pigeons coo – the spring’s approaching now.
The bloom is bursting on the leafy bough;
The cresses green o’er streams are clustering low.
And honey-hives with sweets abundant flow.

II.

Rich are the fruits the hazly woods display –
A slender virgin, virtuous, fair, and gay;
With steeds and sheep, of kine a many score.
By trout-stor’d Lee whose banks we’ll see no more!

III.

The little birds pour music’s sweetest notes.
The calves for milk distend their bleating throats;
Above the weirs the silver salmon leap.
While Cormac Oge and I all lonely weep!

Edward Walsh, Irish Popular Songs; With English Metrical Translations and Introductory Remarks and Notes, 1847, p49-51.

 
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Posted by on March 14, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Beira, Queen of Winter

MacKenzie gives an excellent overview of the Cailleach’s associations and lore, and in spite of the fact that his Wonder Tales from Scotland is readily available over at sacred-texts.com I think think the first chapter is worth posting here with some additional commentary.

The following excerpt does a good job of showing the many different areas that fall under the Cailleach’s purview; she has power over the weather and has a reputation for causing storms and bad weather; her associations with bad weather make perfect sense when you consider the fact that she is also seen as ruling over the winter seasons, when the biting winds and storms are most common; likewise, her fierce temper matches her wintry associations, and the bad weather that comes with it; she is of incredible old age, and (according to some legends) is able to renew her youth by drinking from a well – usually with specific conditions attached to ensure success; she is responsible for the shaping of the land and seas in which she is inextricably linked…The list goes on…

Dark Beira was the mother of all the gods and goddesses in Scotland. She was of great height and very old, and everyone feared her. When roused to anger she was as fierce as the biting north wind and harsh as the tempest-stricken sea. Each winter she reigned as Queen of the Four Red Divisions of the world, and none disputed her sway. But when the sweet spring season drew nigh, her subjects began to rebel against her and to long for the coming of the Summer King, Angus of the White Steed, and Bride, his beautiful queen, who were loved by all, for they were the bringers of plenty and of bright and happy days.1 It enraged Beira greatly to find her power passing away, and she tried her utmost to prolong the winter season by raising spring storms and sending blighting frost to kill early flowers and keep the grass from growing.2

Beira lived for hundreds and hundreds of years. The reason she did not die of old age was because, at the beginning of every spring, she drank the magic waters of the Well of Youth which bubbles up in the Green Island of the West. This was a floating island where summer was the only season, and the trees were always bright with blossom and laden with fruit. It drifted about on the silver tides of the blue Atlantic, and sometimes appeared off the western coasts of Ireland and sometimes close to the Hebrides. Many bold mariners have steered their galleys up and down the ocean, searching for Green Island in vain. On a calm morning they might sail past its shores and yet never know it was near at hand, for oft-times it lay hidden in a twinkling mist. Men have caught glimpses of it from the shore, but while they gazed on its beauties with eyes of wonder, it vanished suddenly from sight by sinking beneath the waves like the setting sun. Beira, however, always knew where to find Green Island when the time came for her to visit it.

The waters of the Well of Youth are most potent when the days begin to grow longer, and most potent of all on the first of the lengthening days of spring. Beira always visited the island on the night before the first lengthening day–that is, on the last night of her reign as Queen of Winter. All alone in the darkness she sat beside the Well of Youth, waiting for the dawn. When the first faint beam of light appeared in the eastern sky, she drank the water as it bubbled fresh from a crevice in the rock. It was necessary that she should drink of this magic water before any bird visited the well and before any dog barked. If a bird drank first, or a dog barked ere she began to drink, dark old Beira would crumble into dust.3

As soon as Beira tasted the magic water, in silence and alone, she began to grow young again. She left the island and, returning to Scotland, fell into a magic sleep. When, at length, she awoke, in bright sunshine, she rose up as a beautiful girl with long hair yellow as buds of broom, cheeks red as rowan berries, and blue eyes that sparkled like the summer sea in sunshine. Then she went to and fro through Scotland, clad in a robe of green and crowned with a chaplet of bright flowers of many hues. No fairer goddess was to be found in all the land, save Bride, the peerless Queen of Summer.4

As each month went past, however, Beira aged quickly. She reached full womanhood in midsummer, and when autumn came on her brows wrinkled and her beauty began to fade. When the season of winter returned once again, she became an old and withered hag, and began to reign as the fierce Queen Beira.

Often on stormy nights in early winter she wandered about, singing this sorrowful song:–

O life that ebbs like the seal
I am weary and old, I am weary and old–
Oh! how can I happy be
All alone in the dark and the cold.

I’m the old Beira again,
My mantle no longer is green,
I think of my beauty with pain
And the days when another was queen.

My arms are withered and thin,
My hair once golden is grey;
’Tis winter–my reign doth begin–
Youth’s summer has faded away.

Youth’s summer and autumn have fled–
I am weary and old, I am weary and old.
Every flower must fade and fall dead
When the winds blow cold, when the winds blow cold.

The aged Beira was fearsome to look upon. She had only one eye, but the sight of it was keen and sharp as ice and as swift as the mackerel of the ocean. Her complexion was a dull, dark blue, and this is how she sang about it:–

Why is my face so dark, so dark?
So dark, oho! so dark, ohee!
Out in all weathers I wander alone
In the mire, in the cold, ah me!

Her teeth were red as rust, and her locks, which lay heavily on her shoulders, were white as an aspen covered with hoar frost. On her head she wore a spotted mutch. All her clothing was grey, and she was never seen without her great dun-coloured shawl, which was drawn closely round her shoulders.

It is told that in the days when the world was young Beira saw land where there is now water and water where there is now land.

Once a wizard spoke to her and said: “Tell me your age, O sharp old woman.”

Beira answered: “I have long ceased to count the years. But I shall tell you what I have seen. Yonder is the seal-haunted rock of Skerryvore in the midst of the sea. I remember when it was a mountain surrounded by fields. I saw the fields ploughed, and the barley that grew upon them was sharp and juicy. Yonder is a loch. I remember when it was a small round well. In these days I was a fair young girl, and now I am very old and frail and dark and miserable.”

It is told also that Beira let loose many rivers and formed many lochs, sometimes willingly and sometimes against her will, and that she also shaped many bens and glens. All the hills in Ross-shire are said to have been made by Beira.

There was once a well on Ben Cruachan, in Argyll, from which Beira drew water daily. Each morning at sunrise she lifted off the slab that covered it, and each evening at sunset she laid it above the well again. It happened that one evening she forgot to cover the well. Then the proper order of things was disturbed. As soon as the sun went down the water rose in great volume and streamed down the mountain side, roaring like a tempest-swollen sea. When day dawned, Beira found that the valley beneath was filled with water. It was in this way that Loch Awe came to be.

Beira had another well in Inverness-shire which had to be kept covered in like manner from sunset till sunrise. One of her maids, whose name was Nessa, had charge of the well. It happened that one evening the maid was late in going to the well to cover it. When she drew near she beheld the water flowing so fast from it that she turned away and. ran for her life. Beira watched her from the top of Ben Nevis, which was her mountain throne, and cried: “You have neglected your duty. Now you will run for ever and never leave water.”

The maiden was at once changed into a river, and the loch and the river which runs from it towards the sea were named after her. That is why the loch is called Loch Ness and the river the river Ness.5

Once a year, when the night on which she was transformed comes round, Ness (Nessa) arises out of the river in her girl form, and sings a sad sweet song in the pale moonlight. It is said that her voice is clearer and more beautiful than that of any bird, and her music more melodious than the golden harps and silvern pipes of fairyland.

In the days when rivers broke loose and lochs were made, Beira set herself to build the mountains of Scotland. When at work she carried on her back a great creel filled with rocks and earth. Sometimes as she leapt from hill to hill her creel tilted sideways, and rocks and earth fell from it into lochs and formed islands. Many islands are spoken of as “spillings from the creel of the big old woman”.

Beira had eight hags who were her servants. They also carried creels, and one after the other they emptied out their creels until a mountain was piled up nigh to the clouds.

One of the reasons why Beira made the mountains was to use them as stepping stones; another was to provide houses for her giant sons. Many of her sons were very quarrelsome; they fought continually one against another. To punish those of them who disobeyed her, Beira shut the offenders up in mountain houses, and from these they could not escape without her permission. But this did not keep them from fighting. Every morning they climbed to the tops of their mountain houses and threw great boulders at one another. That is why so many big grey boulders now lie on steep slopes and are scattered through the valleys. Other giant sons of Beira dwelt in deep caves. Some were horned like deer, and others had many heads. So strong were they that they could pick up cattle and, throwing them over their shoulders, carry them away to roast them for their meals. Each giant son of Beira was called a Fooar.6

It was Beira who built Ben Wyvis. She found it a hard task, for she had to do all the work alone, her hag servants being busy elsewhere. One day, when she had grown very weary, she stumbled and upset her creel. All the rocks and earth it contained fell out in a heap, and formed the mountain which is called Little Wyvis.

The only tool that Beira used was a magic hammer. When she struck it lightly on the ground the soil became as hard as iron; when she struck it heavily on the ground a valley was formed. After she had built up a mountain, she gave it its special form by splintering the rocks with her hammer. If she had made all the hills of the same shape, she would not have been able to recognize one from another.

After the mountains were all formed, Beira took great delight in wandering between them and over them. She was always followed by wild animals. The foxes barked with delight when they beheld her, wolves howled to greet her, and eagles shrieked with joy in mid-air. Beira had great herds and flocks to which she gave her protection-nimble-footed deer, high-horned cattle, shaggy grey goats, black swine, and sheep that had snow-white fleeces. She charmed her deer against the huntsmen, and when she visited a deer forest she helped them to escape from the hunters. During early winter she milked the hinds on the tops of mountains, but when the winds rose so high that the froth was blown from the milking pails, she drove the hinds down to the valleys. The froth was frozen on the crests of high hills, and lay there snow-white and beautiful. When the winter torrents began to pour down the mountain sides, leaping from ledge to ledge, the people said: “Beira is milking her shaggy goats, and streams of milk are pouring down over high rocks.”

Beira washed her great shawl in the sea, for there was no lake big enough for the purpose. The part she chose for her washing is the strait between the western islands of Jura and Scarba. Beira’s “washing-pot” is the whirlpool, there called Corry-vreckan. It was so named because the son of a Scottish king, named Breckan, was drowned in it, his boat having been upset by the waves raised by Beira.

Three days before the Queen of Winter began her work her hag servants made ready the water for her, and the Corry could then be heard snorting and fuming for twenty miles around. On the fourth day Beira threw her shawl into the whirlpool, and tramped it with her feet until the edge of the Corry overflowed with foam. When she had finished her washing she laid her shawl on the mountains to dry, and as soon as she lifted it up, all the mountains of Scotland were white with snow to signify that the great Queen had begun her reign.

Now, the meaning of this story is that Beira is the spirit of winter. She grows older and fiercer as the weeks go past, until at length her strength is spent. Then she renews her youth, so that she may live through the summer and autumn and begin to reign once again. The ancient people of Scotland saw that during early winter torrents poured down from the hills, and in this Beira fable they expressed their belief that the torrents were let loose by the Winter Queen, and that the lochs were, at the beginning, formed by the torrents that sprang from magic wells. They saw great boulders lying on hillsides and in valleys, and accounted for their presence in these places by telling how they were flung from mountain tops by the giant sons of Beira.

Notes
1 The tale is told in the following chapter, The Coming of Angus and Bride; as mentioned before, however, it seems that MacKenzie is the only source for this tale.
2 The Cailleach’s battle against the onslaught of spring has already been told here; her struggle ends on Là na Cailliche, when she gives up and throws her mallet down in disgust.
3 A tale of this kind has already been posted here. The motif of approaching the well in silence reflects a common practice in healing rites where the well should be approached before sunrise on a certain day, in absolute silence. Breaking the silence breaks the spell.
4 Once again, MacKenzie seems to be the only source for this, but F. Marian McNeill echoes this in The Silver Bough. Neither give any references for where they got this from, so it’s a little suspect.
5 Campbell also gives a version of Ness’s creation story.
6 MacKenzie notes: “Pronounced Foo’ar. The Anglo-Irish rendering is “Fomorian”, but the Irish Fomorians are different from the Scottish.” But ‘Fooar’ could equally be an anglicised rendering of the Gàidhlig word ‘fuar’, meaning ‘cold.’ This fits with their mountain location and the Cailleach’s association with bitter weather and the winter season itself, suggesting they might actually be considered to be personifications of the Cailleach’s power over the seasons.

 
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Posted by on February 18, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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The Old Woman of Lia Nothain

Here’s an intriguing one, which I can only conclude contains a relatively obscure reference to the Cailleach Bhéarra. Nothain – a cailleach, an ‘old woman’ as Stokes translates it, is shown here to have a sister who is called Sentuinne, or ‘Old Woman’; I can only assume the Berre mentioned here is the Beare most commonly associated with the Cailleach, suggesting that Sentuinne may be the Cailleach Bhéarra herself. Like the Cailleach of Gleann Cailliche in Glen Lyon – where there is a shrine to the Cailleach and her family – she is married to an old man (called the Bodach in Glen Lyon, the shrine being called either Tigh nam Bodach or Tigh na Caillich).

Nothain being taken out onto the plain at Bealtaine seems to be hint at some sort of seasonal/fertility associations here. Mythological women or goddesses are commonly associated with clearing and dying at plains, which naturally provide pasture or fields for crops to grow, and so their deaths might be seen as a sacrifice for the sake of their people’s well-being. 

Nothain (was) an old woman of Connaught, and from the time she was born her face never fell on a field, and her thrice fifty years were complete. Her sister once went to have speech with her. Sentuinne (” Old Woman”) was her name: her husband was Sess Srafais, and Senbachlach (“Old-Churl”) was another name for him. Hence said the poet:

Sentuinne and Senbachlach,
A seis srofais be their withered hair!
If they adore not God’s Son
They get not their chief benefit.

From Berre, then, they went to her to bring her on a plain on May-day. When she beheld the great plain, she was unable to go back from it, and she planted a stone (lia) there in the ground, and struck her head against it and….and was dead. ” It will be my requiem….I plant it for sake of my name.” Whence Lia Nothan (“Nothan’s Stone”).

Nothain, daughter of Conmar the fair,
A hard old woman of Connaught,
In the month of May, glory of battle,
She found the high stone.

Stokes, The Bodleian Dindshenchas, Folklore Vol III, 1892, p504-505.

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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