Poems Found in Translation: Old Irish
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"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

"Summer's Gone"
Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song.   Sad stags moan.
Winter blows,   summer's gone.
High winds lash.    Low, the sun.
Short, its course.   Seas roar on.
Fall-red fern   loses form.
Wildgeese wail   as the norm.
Cold now holds   each bird's wing.
Icy times.   So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib   dordaid dam
snigid gaim   ro·fáith sam
Gáeth ard úar   ísel grían
gair a r-rith   ruirthech rían
Rorúad rath   ro·cleth cruth 
ro·gab gnáth   giugrann guth
Ro·gab úacht   etti én
aigre ré   é mo scél

Pangur Bán (from Old Irish)

The poem translated here is of anonymous authorship, in that the author's name is unknown. But he was an Irish monk operating at or near Reichenau Abbey in what is today Germany in the 9th century. The poem is found in his notebook. The meter of the original is a loose seven-syllable deibide with the featural rhymes typical of Old Irish, in the alternating rinn/ardrinn style in which a stressed syllable is rhymed with an unstressed one. I have rendered it in English with seven-syllable trochaic tetrameter and mostly using full rhymes, which may be a bit sing-songy or clip-cloppy, but seems to fit the tone of the poem rather well. Compare this with my translation of Creide's lament where I used a syllabic approach to vary the rhythm a great deal more, and also used rhymes that — in English — would be judged imperfect but fit the featural criteria for what counts as a rhyme in Irish. 

Pangur Bán 
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Me and Pangur Bán at work:
He the cat, and I the clerk.
He is hunting mice to nip,
I am at my scholarship.

Fame's for fools. I'd rather rest
Studying my book with zest.
Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Plies his child-play all he can.

It's our never-boring tale.
We two, home alone, can't fail
To find everlasting sport
On which to fixate our art.

After berserk battle he
Nets a mouse in victory.
Me, I net a hard, dark line
Till I make its meaning shine.

His bright penetrating eye
Points toward the wall. While I 
Set my far less piercing sight
On a point more recondite.

He exults, getting a raw
Mouse impaled upon his claw.
When a dear yet difficult
Problem yields, I too exult.

That's us, ever at our art.
None bugging his counterpart, 
Each making a craft his own
To rejoice in it alone. 

Crafty Pangur, cat of prey,
Plies his trade by night and day.
I do monk's work, day and night,
Solving, bringing dark to light.


The Original:

Messe ocus Pangur Bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindán;
bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im saincheirdd

Caraim-se fos, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;
ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,
caraid cesin a maccdán.

Ó ru·biam — scél cen scís —
innar tegdais ar n-óendís,
táithiunn — díchríchide clius —
ní fris tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth-húaraib ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna lín-sam;
os mé, du·fuit im lín chéin
dliged n-doraid cu n-dronchéill.

Fúachid-sem fri frega fál
a rosc anglése comlán;
fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis
mu rosc réil, cesu imdis,

Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul
hi·n-glen luch inna gérchrub;
hi·tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,
os mé chene am fáelid.

Cía beimmi amin nach ré,
ní·derban cách ar chéle.
Maith la cechtar nár a dán,
subaigthius a óenurán.

Hé fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du·n-gní cach óenláu;
du thabairt doraid du glé
for mu mud céin am messe.

Lament of Créide for Dínertach (From Old Irish)

This poem preserved in the West Munster cycle. According to the prose preface there, Dínertach had come to fi ght for Guaire of Gort in 649 and was killed in battle, and the poem was made by Guaire's daughter Créd who had fallen for him. This does not make overmuch sense, as the poem is more intelligible if it is Guaire's wife who is speaking. The language of the poem, as reconstructed from a later copy, puts it in the late 9th century, hundreds of years after the events that supposedly occasioned it. It gives me the impression of having been originally an independent work that was eventually sutured into a prose narrative.

Créide's Lament for Dínertach (ca. 9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night:
Pangs for time spent after dark
With the man from Roigne's march.

Mad love for an outlander
Who outstripped his every peer
Has stripped my bloom, bleached my cheek,
And will now not let me sleep.

He spoke sweeter than men sing
Save those hymning heaven's king:
My great flame who spoke no bluff,
My sleek, tender-sided love.

As a girl I was modest,
Had no truck with lust or tryst.
Now in my uncertain age
Wantonness plays its charades.

Here I've got every good thing
With Gúaire, cold Aidne's king.
But the mind will out afar
From my folk to Irluachar.

Here they sing round Cell Colmán
In grand Aidne of that man
From past Limerick's grave-track,
The great flame named Dínertach.

Christ! It mutilates my heart
How they killed him in the dark.
These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night.

The Original:

It é saigte gona súain,
cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair,
serccoí, lia gnása, íar n-dé,
fir a tóeb thíre Roigne.

Rográd fir ala thíre
ro-síacht sech a chomdíne
ruc mo lí (ní lór do dath);
ním-léci do thindabrad.

Binniu laídib a labrad
acht Ríg nime nóebadrad:
án bréo cen bréthir m-braise,
céle tana tóebthaise.

Imsa naídiu robsa náir:
ní bínn fri dúla dodáil;
ó do-lod i n-inderb n-aís
rom-gab mo théte togaís.

Táthum cech maith la Gúaire,
la ríg n-Aidni adúaire;
tocair mo menma óm thúathaib
isin íath i n-Irlúachair.

Canair a i n-íath Aidni áin,
im thóebu Cille Colmáin,
án bréo des Luimnech lechtach
díanid comainm Dínertach. 

Cráidid mo chride cainech,
a Chríst cáid, a ̇foraided:
it é saigte gona súain
cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair.

Storm on the Great Moor (From Old Irish)

Storm on the Great Moor
(Anonymous: possibly 9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Night falls cold on the Great Moor,
Storming with no small downpour. 
Wind laughs at its whooping flood
Shrieking on shielding wildwood.

Me reading the original Old Irish:
The Original:

Úar ind adaig i móin móir 
feraid dertan ní deróil
dordán fris tib in gaeth glan
geissid ós caille clithar

Thankful for a Stormy Night (From Old Irish)

This short piece was written by a monk in the margin of an Irish manuscript of Priscian's Institutiones grammaticae. The poem's author welcomes a stormy night free from the risk of attacking Vikings, and supplies us with our earliest attestation of the Irish name for Scandinavia.  

Thankful for a Stormy Night
Anonymous (9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman from Old Irish

Bitter wild winds blow tonight,
Tossing the sea's tress to white.
Good. I don't fear clear seas may
Bring berserkers from Norway.

Audio of me reading the original Old Irish:
The Original:

Is aicher in gáeth in nocht
fu·fúasna fairrge findḟolt;
ní·águr réimm Mora Minn
dond láechraid lainn úa Lothlind