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Stories, Myths & Legends The Roscs of Mogh Ruith |
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Cingthe, a Cheannmahair choscurigh,
do-chódh catha Chorb
go ro soeiter sealg
seanbhán-sidhe dearg
is delbh da éis
anmachta
inne go dtaí gheall.
Go ro-dhluidhí drong
sléachta mo roisc rindamn
cía ro bat é is beacht.
Do bhear catha coilt
gan neimhe gan neart
Niamhtar mo dhaimh dhamhraighi
go lúath gáeithí
im' ghort do Chormac mac Airt.
Éarnfaidh uath is olc
dom roich agus mo sholmae
re súigtis neartu niach,
dom roich mo coilg ndaighneimhneach,
frithálta mo sciath,
scáil mo ghoithne umhaidhí.
Oirciu-so Choinn ach go
bhfoirbreann feidhm
Fhir do-liach
go rop ceann úas, chách catha díana
dífhrecra dermára na ndroinge
dáiríne agus deargthine
Domnat for Leath Cuinn corraigh
mo chlíabh chreaphnaise,
céim fria hilar ann
damhna damh,
biadh óic fo áill.
ailmí calma. Cing,
cingtheá, a Cheannmahair.
It is arrived (approached), O Kenmare Victorious,
a terrible vanquishing (winning) of the battle with Corb
that was a (trans)formed hunt
(by the) old and white (drained) red sidhe
transformed in its shape (troop)
(from that) of soul-mentorship (good advice)
today to secured silence.
To great diminishings of throngs
the slaughter of my starry (piercing) rosc
is that which is certain.
Engaged are battles of destructions
without poisons, without strength.
Envenomed be my stag* of stag-ragings
speedily so (as though) of winds
in my field (on my own ground) to Cormac.
A thorn-tree* which is harmful will bestow
to my reach and my readiness
by its attachment to heroic strength,
to my reach, my sword of fiery poison,
having attended to my shield,
a phantom my little bronze dart.
I slay thusly Conn, except that
it accomplishes (requires) utmost effort.
O terribly wretched man,
who would be a noble head(man), he of swift battle
incomparable and vast of the multitudes
of Petty Selfdom and of Red Fire (puns on tribal names)
(What) bursts forth upon the side of battleful Conn
(is) my swift-cutting "rib-work" (obscure meaning),
an exploit with its multitude here
a fit substance/cause for stags*,
food of youth in its beauty,
brave pine-tree*. Arrive! (Approach!),
you arrived, O Kenmare.
Coille beaga binneacha,
ealla chuileach chorrmhíolach
comhdháil geinnte is gadaighid [goid],
gleann go n-éachtaibh ilardaibh,
adhbha fiadhmhuc noinsheascair
éanach fiadhmhíl.
Fo ró-dhúr
cuiteach léanach lánshalach
feagha loma ilotreacha.
Learg ainbtheach
rá innísi
iolar bhuidne beann.
Bebáis bás
dá mbun a ndochuibh,
beidh gan aicme noiracais,
áilnibh railgibh rún,
rotaibh ruaibh rig-leasaibh / léasaibh,
reannaibh (rionnaibh) cathráibh.
Cúl!
O Coille!
O woods small and melodious,
(now) of an unkept surprise (burst) of midges,
a meeting of birth-giving and thievery,
(in this) valley that's of achievements of many-exaltings,
abode of wild pigs (they) made comfortable,
bird-ful of wild honeys.
(Is inflicted) on it [i.e. Munster] very grimly (stupidly)
like a snare (pitfall) deeply afflicted fully dirty
a bare (de-feathered) raven (of) many-dunghills.
On stormy mountainsides
O glorious(ly) to the south of this
(is an) eagle gainful (having troops) of the (mountain) peaks.
Those who died (their) deaths
if as a result of the founding of their
(the enemy's) wrong-doings,
it will be without (distinction of) tribe they are angered,
(they) of beauties, of the secrets' oaks*,
of slaughters ruddy (bloody) of royal benefits / radiances,
of the spear-points (satires) of battle-sayings.
Retreat! (you the enemy)
O woods! [this does not attach to the previous line, but is a standard formula
of "locking" a rosc by
repeating the opening phrase.]
Tír mhín ainmhéin,
tír fhluich thirim,
tír aibhinn an-anibhinn,
tír fhántach thulchach,
tír bhláitheadrocht bhráthar,
ní humfhaemú-sa an thír.
Clú chathach clonghalach,
clú eachtach urbadhach,
clú uathmhar aicsineach,
clú fhliuch lochanach,
lir a conach,
lir a húscaí,
lir a hantaic géid a hiommaire,
lir a catha,
lir a haile,
lir a heighmhe aidhbhre
a huile eile a slada
a sáruighte slighí churad clú
Land gentle of passion,
land (both) wet (and) dry,
land of very beautiful rivers,
land of (both) hollows (and) hills
land of flowery and mysterious language,
no acceptance of raw/harshness (is) this land's.
Fame of sword-clashing battles,
fame of baneful wondrous deed-doing,
fame thick with its own singularity of vision,
fame of wet lake-fulness,
a great many its victories,
a great quantity its lard,
a great wealth its furrows of goose-fat,
a great many its battles,
a great many its other things,
a greatness its shouting, vast splendour,
that everything else is its plunder,
its exceedly (fine) woven ways bound to fame.
(the High King's druids dry up Munster's rivers; Mogh Ruith chants:)
Buinn fria bráth
Brígh fria dloimh
ceannbheach cath.
Dígla (díglá) daigh ó bhrígh
aird saer ní cheal go bhrígh mbáin.
I ndeoin áedh ón tsruth theas
dían túar brígh go sruth thuaidh.
Slúaigh nár thib.
Cinnbhea damh
fó gach colg re a ndul amach
i ndeoin ard cinnbhea damh
fo barr scíath a ghlinn.
Brigde
go háth Cliath in arbáid sin
Cíd na conn, bed fo mblog,
for mbia mairg romhuidh.
Díl rom chealt.
Ceannmahr, Muiche, Buireach, Beant,
Or nár comhbhrígh friu (go) beacht,
Dóibh bás olc.
Fía muinter, cinnbhea damh.
Toradh toinn,
ní bat gluinn faífait buinn.
Torrents (great rivers) be with it (Munster) forever
(Magical) energy with its nucleus
foremost enlivened of battles.
Be it avenged (a terrible shout) ablaze from energy
of free nobility not vanished to energy made white (bloodless).
By (my) will of fire from a stream (flow) in the south
swift(ly) a portend (poet) of energy to a flow in the north.
Hosts of warriors may they not be cut back.
May a stag* strike foremost,
good every sword with their going forth
by (my) high will, may a stag* strike foremost
beneath the tip of shields guaranteed.
Be they confirmed
to the mouth of the Liffey in submergence (drowning) there.
They of the hounds, be they under (cut into) pieces,
that there will be sorrow around them.
Destruction before my visage.
Kenmare, Mochet, Buireach, Beant,
Be there no limit (to their) joint energy precisely.
To them (the enemy) a terrible death.
A deer is well-learnt, may a stag* strike foremost.
Fruit of wave,
be there no generations lamenting (the lack of) great rivers.
Síothal lán, síothal slán.
Luigsim féin féin ra cach mál.
Síothal shuain, síothal sámh.
Bear úr uaibh
do cheann slúaigh d'Fhiachaigh mál.
Síothal glan, síothal gart
um rígh mborb.
Síothal slán, síothal suain.
Bear úr.
Do Mhogh Chorb
síothal airgid agus óir agus cruain,
síothal shíog agus rígh agus rúain
lúthar libh agus uaibh do Mhogh Ruith
is d'fhir Coirb
is do Bhuan
lúthsat féin
feacht fo thrí
ra feacht fáth
beact for rígh.
Báidhfe tart.
Beofaidh brígh,
fóirfidh cach,
sóefidh síath. Síothal.
Soeim athshoeim
muna soeim dluma dirche
soeim bríocht, soeim breachta
soeim deachta doilbhte,
soeim ard, soeim adhbhal
soeim gach aidbhertaid,
soeim tulach do thulaigh
comhdar thubhaidh ar traigh.
Traethfat-sa cnoc ceann a ceann
comhbean-sa fria a aitheann.
Soeim gach at,
tráis i bhfíochaí eo,
i bhfíochaí sceo.
Dánaim dar,
dánaim dánaim
neimh im' neart Ua Chuinn cur,
Colphtha agus Lurga luáth go ndíobhát san áth.
Errghi, Eng, augus Engain ná cú
ceangair gach.
Bíodh crúibleacht ar crúibh,
cré omh ann dan lot.
Bíodh fiadhlann ar cnoc.
Bíodh a ráidh ar áth féim
a chomhailfeat frium chlana Eoghain ann.
Bíodh dóibh an maith mór, biáidh,
flaith ina láimh
dá ndiúlat rem chlú ann.
Cineadh Fiachach feirt
a ndine a n-ólt
gan ríghí, gan reacht (ríocht).
Cinfeadh ó Mogh Corbh
cuaine ráth fria a rí,
a righfidis as a reacht
a seacht mba sé.
Séidim-se Druim nDamh.
Séidis gaeis líaigh gom.
Séidis gabhál ngall.
Séidis neimh úar omh.
Ní rob inann sin,
séidis bánfiadh bruth
ach rob inann súd.
Soeis ré sin an sraith
im' racht i ndraíocht
im' dheach-chath
im' dheachath úadh.
Leacais
comhbhlicht cnocv a soeim.
I turn (transform), I re-turn,
not but I turn nuclei of darkness,
I turn verbal spells, I turn speckled* spells,
I turn purities of form,
I turn high, I turn mightily,
I turn each adversity,
I turn a hill to subside,
equally an onslaught on its foot.
Subjugated will be the hill, one by one
an equal blow against those who flee,
I turn each not smelled out.
I turn each tumour (in hiding),
they are disgraced in my fierce anger of a yew (prince)
in my angers raging.
I bestow (declare a poem, make it fate) by this,
I bestow, I bestow,
poison in my power, the O'Cuinns to bind.
Colptha and Lurga, may they speedily terribly-die in the ford.
Errghi, Eng, and Engain (the enemy's magic ewes)
and not one (of my magic) hounds,
are they each chained.
Be it hooves' grave from claws, raw dust in it, ruin.
Be a fiodhrádh piece (wild anger) cast on the hill.
Be there a piece (saying) on the ford itself,
which equally strikes (nourishes) my clann of Eoghan there.
Be there to them a great good, a blessing,
a sovereignty in their (own) hands
if they do not deny my fame among them.
Be descended of Fiacha prodigies
who will suck their drink
without a (high) king, without his rule (over them).
(But be) descended from Mogh Corbh
a pack of dogs altogether against their king,
scattered away from his kingdom
each of their seven cows* in turn.
I breath-blast indeed the Ridge of the Stags.
Breath-blasted be the sageries of the doctors of anguish.
Breath-blasted be the grasp of the foreigners.
Breath-blasted poison raw and cold.
Not a body the same just there
breath-blasted wild-white (empty) raging,
but a(nother) body the same over there.
Turnt (transformed) be that expanse of the sword
in my paroxysm of magic
in my best battle
in my perfect best battle.
Subjugated (made into stone)
yielding milk (drained dry) be the hill
which I turn (transform).
(This is the magic stone that will turn into a monster.)
Ailim mo lic laeme
Nárobh é thaidhbhsí tháidhe
Bíodh breo a bhrisfes báirí
re chath chródhe Cláire.
Mo chloch thein a thug a thinn.
Bíodh nathair dearg a dhobhair mairg
cur a bhfillfe a fhoraim.
Bíodh muireascann (reascán)
mholach
fiadh seacht gconga dée ró-dhaimh
idir thonnaibh tré-oll
Bíodh badhbh idir bhadhuibh
a scéaras corp re hanmuin.
Bíodh nathair nóis-naidmuibh
um corp Colptha ollmhór
ó dtalamin go a cheann,
anbhoig sleamhan a bhirrcheann
an rot ruibheach a reaghtainn.
Bíodh drais gharbh imtéinn (im'thein)
mairg a ticfa a thimpeall.
Mo dhraic thairbeach (dhraictháir beach) teann,
canfait uais is uagtair,
mairg co a shín
fae shurdghail
do Cholptha agus do Lurga
a laifider f'aill.
An trascradh nosthrascainn.
Is fastad nosfhastainn.
Is nascadh nosnascainn.
Mar bhís féithe im'chrann.
Coiscfider a bhfoghaill,
meathfaider a monair,
beith a gcoirp fa chonnuibh.
Ar ath olair air (a rath olair air/ara tholair air)
go mbearrbhais leo leinibh
gan troit is gan deabhaidh
a gcoscair re a gceannuibh.
Cé maith eadh budh áil,
áilim.
I request my stone of conflagration.
Be it no ghost of theft.
Be it a blaze that will fight/uproar victory/sages
before the valiant battle of Clare,
my fire stone which delves pain.
Be it a red serpent which sorrows
a binding his course to bend.
Be it a sea-eel / little-loquacity
eye-browed (fierce) / spindled (going round)
deer of seven-points of gods of a very-stag*
between waves triple great.
Be it a scald-crow among scald-crows
who divide a body with a nasty trick.
Be it a snake in eminent constrictions
around Colptha's body mightily
from the earth to his head
a terrible softness slippery the tip of his head,
the daring slaughter I have overthrown.
Be it a rough thorn-bush* I go round (in my fire)
a sorrow which will come round him.
My strong dragon bullish (of insult like bees)
will sing proud and of authority,
sorrow in its storn
below its gambolling
to Colptha and Lurga,
lay them low beneath the cliff.
The casting-down, I cast it down.
And the detaining, I detain it.
And the binding, I bind it.
Like a spiral of sinew in my staff.
Prevented be their escapes,
failed be their undertakings,
both their bodies beneath hounds.
At the ford, grease (blood on it / disgusts on their wealth)
be they stripped (death cut through) to their tunics
without fight and without contention
to protect their heads.
Such good will be the request
I request.
(the jingle-jangle style of this humourous rosc with its many puns and deliberately childish grammar can only idiomatically be rendered into English)
Fós a mhuin cé acht mhaeth-romhar,
a péist,
a chael a ruadh
a lath breac
a aiteann ruadh iar-romhar
a mhalach ruadh mhidh-romhar
a chrann shúileach ruadh coilg-romhar
a theanga dearg tein-dtighti
a ghun a cheas ar comhlasadh
a anál dían duibhnéalach
a mar cheo tar garbhcnocuibh leic
ar a gcúl a chaem-macamh
(ár gcul an caemhmacamh)
ó nach comhlonn comhadais
nár thug sár ár saor-chlannuibh
óm' Fhiachachaigh Mhóir Muilleatháin.
Dálta na draoithe
do dhrongastar.
Éirigh go cóir
ádh céad-aignidh
a luighe (loighe)
ar/ár láimh mín Mhór-Mhogha.
Ro fheadais rádh fíos, fós
(Rá feadais rádh a fhios, fós).
Although his back it's only skinny-fat
it's he who is a monster.
his little stream through the bog is ruddy (bloody)
it's he's a speckled* (magic) warrior
his furze ruddy fat behind him
his eye-brows rudy middle-fat (raised/bushy)
his eyed-tree (penis) ruddy sword-fat
his red tongue a fire's fat house ablaze
it's a wound, his mouth an equal blazing
his breath a sudden black cloud
like a fog across harsh hills of stones
on their backs made smooth [i.e. without warriors recently dead to commemorate
by carving on them]
(slaughter of chariots is the beauty of youth)
from there being no violence equal, nor fitness equal to,
nor a gifting exceeding that of our free clans
of my Fiacha great Muilleathan.
Engaged are the (enemy) druids
gathered together in a big bunch.
Arise to a justice
success a hundredfold spirited
sworn (given indulgement)
by the fine (our little) hands of Big Mogh.
It has been whistled in derision
(a saying-spell of a wisdom still).
(The first two lines are in prose.)
Is ann thug Buan an seaghdhaí sheanfhocail
ar ard ag a hinnsint agus asbert:
A Thádhbhais damh ardbassa,
a Fhir a fhéach aislingí
na hÉireann il-infris-fhéidhí,
Dhia h-eisidhí frium,
Dhaimh, crúba coilgdireach
go mbeannuibh bánargead,
muc allaidh úr úathmhar,v bó hoghearc fionn,
an triar ná thúitrann-sa,
bó agus muc mór féighe,
damh dreaman dásachtach
rá dílmain drong,
a cucainn, ró-comhluidset
go ár leapaidh lánlaidhí.
A Athar liom, ro luighesdar a daoine, go buan.
Bearat bráit, mbunathaibh forfhios
féigh, ar chanaidh
as na féathuibh faistine.
Forbeirit gúel glúinn,
fháse an torc trébhiadhnach,
traethar feirg fortanlais,
flaith chathach chonghalach
chorm chuí, chuid crota,
i ndamh dreach-leathán.
Dagh-mhac fial fionn-Eoghan Mór Muillethán
a mhúires cath cró.
Éimhne fhial ilcruthach
im' mhaith mhóragha
mhín bhuile
bhláitherocht
mo bhean-sa an bhó,
bíodh fuí ní faífider.
Cath Cláire claífider,
bíodh rem uind ro féinfider.
Rígfit meic mna.
Bíodh curdháin chomhaigtes Cormaic
cuilti conaigfes.
Bíodh dinn a domaincheas.
Irim a thochtadh (Irí mo thochtadh).
Then Buan gave the excellence of ancient word
aloud in its telling, and said:
O Spectre of stags* of great knowledge,
O Man whose sight is in visions
of Ireland of many byred calms,
God of requests beside me,
O Stag*, hooves sharp as swords
to antler-points white-silver,
pig* of the wilds fresh green terrible,
fair cow* of red-speckled* ear-points,
the trinity who do not scrutinize,
cow* and great pig* of keen sight,
fierce stag* of divine possessions,
glorious, free of the restraint of crowds,
who sing together, have advanced together
to our harbour of complete attentions.
O father of mine, pledged to his people forever,
The veils are removed,
by the source of great wisdom
keenly seen, upon song
from out of the magical mists of prophecy.
The generations of the Gael increase.
The triple-yeared wild boar* has grown,
subdued the wraths of supreme power,
sovereignty of battles pugnacious,
of a proper ale feast, of a lot of the harp,
in a wide-faced stag*.
Good son gentle fair Eoghan Great Muillethan
wages a war of inheritance.
Eimhne gentle many-beautied
in my joy much magnified
gentle handsome flower-bright,
my woman, she the cow*,
let her have no reason to lament.
The Battle of Clare will be put to the sword,
before my gaze be it soldiered.
May the sons of women reign.
The bound-givings equally guaranteed
by Cormac and in need abandoned,
let them be performed.
Let there be no belonging here for profound grief.
I bestow its silence (You bestow my silence).
A Dhé dhraíthe, mo dhé
tar gach ndé,
séid, séid fair, séid fáe
Foluibh luis le húr, acht
fiadhláibh luis le críon
acht lúath crithrach críne
fásta crithre uise.
Cirb, a cheo chaethainn,
caín, a cheo chaethainn.
Chearda dhraoíthe, dolbhaím.
Nirt Chormaic. cloím.
Cheachta, Chruite, Chithre
clocha daoibh dolbhaím.
De-uca gáeth dobhéineadh.
cathfhráoch, a chlich
re choir gáeth aneas
thréan gáeith a neas,
ocht bhfogháeithe, ceathre phríomhgháeithe
a chondh'fhicht
gáeth ós gháethuibh.
Sruth mór mac Gaill,
caínfider, faidh fis.
Forcha cath cáth Fiachach,
forfháinneach athcháith Cormaic.
Caín, a Bhebáis (a Bhé Bháis)
Bleithein
a Mhaidme be teine tréathnaigh
fé scéarta leacaithe (leiceatha) Chormaic
ó n-omáidhí mo chloichmharbh
aidhghne.
Ní ba ruireach ríghphoirt
a ré ráis cloich.
Caín, a Chathfráoigh.
A Dhé, dhé dhraíthe.
O god of druids, my god
above all (other) gods,
breath-blast, breath-blast on it, breath-blast beneath it.
By the essences of rowans* to engreen, but
by the wooden-poems (fiadhrádh*) of rowans* to wither,
yet speedily a glowing of decay
grown from a humble spark.
Cut (them) short, O fog of rowan*,
keen, O fog of rowan*.
O Skill of druids, I sorcerize you.
O Power of Cormac, I vanquish you.
Cecht, Cruit, Cithra (the enemy druids),
I sorcerize you into stones.
For that, a wind of harsh beating,
a battle frenzy which bestirs
before a justice of wind from the south,
a power of wind which wounds.
Eight lesser winds, four major winds
which equally punish,
a wind above winds.
Great torrent of sons of the foreigners.
it will be keened, an out-cry of wisdom.
A lighting-bolt hammer is the noble battle of Fiacha,
encircled is the old rubbish of Cormac.
Keen, you who have died (O Woman of Death),
blaze monsterously.
O Explosion which is a fire of triple cleansings
below the squashed shouts (battled to stone) of Cormac
in homages to my stone-giving-death.
May he recognize (this is so).
Be there no chief in the king's camp,
its expanse said (verbally magicked) to stone.
Keen, O Battle-Frenzy.
O god, god of druids.
Fíoraim bríocht
a neart néil cuma
braen fola ar fhear.
Bíodh fó an bíth.
Bruiter drong, go mbá crith,
ár cuain Chuinn
go mbá i n-eas,
gach neart níath.
Bíodh flaith fúach.
Fhir do-liach, go luidh brách.
Búaidnibh slógh
biáidh ós gach Eoghan Mór.
Mogh Corb cas cliti sealaig.
Bíodh ráidh, flaith nóifer.
Fíoraím bríocht.
I fashion-and-verify a verbal spell
its power of clouds, a shape
of a rain of blood on a man.
Be good the wound.
Be goaded, the rabble to drown atrembling.
a slaughter of the dog-pack of O'Cuinn
to drown in the rapids
each a warrior's strength.
Be there a sovereignty of stanzas (poetry).
O man very wretched, keep fleeing forever.
Of the triumphs of the hosts,
a blessing above all on Great Eoghan.
Mogh Corb is repulsed, necessarily vanquished, laid low.
Be it a proverb, sovereignty will spread
I fashion-and-verify a verbal spell.
Source: The Excellence of Ancient Word: Druid Rhetorics from Ancient Irish Tales
by Seán Ó Tuathail
Copyright © 1993 John
Kellnhauser
May be reposted as long as the above attribution and copyright notice are
retained from website: http://www.imbas.org
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