| Remfastine As: Táin Bó Cúailnge Gan ainm (11th/12th century) |
Táin Bó Cúailnge / The Cattle Raid of Cooley edited & translated by Thomas Kinsella Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985 |
| The Foretelling - translation by Thomas Kinsella |
[The Prophecy of Fedelm to Medb, as the armies of Connacht and Ireland set off to steal the Brown Bull of Cooley]
Fail secht gemma láth n-gaile
ar lar a dá imcaisne,
fail fuidrech for a rinne,
fail laéind deirg drolaig imme.
Ro fail gnúis is grátam dó,
dober mod don banchuireo,
gilla óc is delbdu dath
tadbait delb drecoin don chath.
Nocon fetar cóich in cú
Culaind asa Murthemniu,
acht ra fetar-sa tra imne
bid forderg in sluag sa de.
Cethri claidbíni cress n-án
ra fail cechtar a da lám,
condricfa a n-imbirt for slúag,
isaingním ris téit cech n-ai úad.
A gae bulgae mar-domber
cenmothá a chlaideb sa sleg,
fer i furchrus bruitt deirg
dobeir a choiss for cach leirg.
A da sleig dar fonnad n-gle
ar-dá-sgail in ríastarde,
cruth dom-arfáit air cose
derb limm no chloemchlaifed gnee.
Ro gab tascugud don chath,
meni faichlither bid brath,
don chomlund isé far-saig
Cuchulainn mac Sualtaig.
Slaidfid far sluagu slana,
con curfe far tiugára,
faicebthai leis óg far cend,
ní cheil in banfaid Feidelm.
Silfid crú a cnessaib curad,
bud fata bas chian chuman,
beit cuirp cerbtha, cáinfit mná
ó Choin na cerdda atchiu-sa.
I see a battle: a blonde man
with much blood about his belt
and a hero-halo round his head.
His brow is full of victories
Seven hard heroic jewels
are set in the iris of his eye.
His jaws are settled in a snarl.
He wears a looped, red tunic.
A noble countenance I see,
working effect on womenfolk:
a young man of sweet colouring;
a form dragonish in the fray.
His great valour brings to mind
Cúchulainn of Murtheimne,
the hound of Culann, full of fame.
Who he is I cannot tell
but I see, now, the whole host
coloured crimson by his hand.
A giant on the plain I see,
doing battle with the host,
holding in each or his two hands
four quick short swords.
I see him hurling against that host
two gae bolga and a spear
and an ivory-hilted sword,
each weapon to its separate task.
He towers on the battlefield
in breastplate and red cloak
Across the sinister chariot-wheel
the Warped Man deals death
- that fair form I first beheld
melted into a mis-shape
I see him moving into the fray:
take warning, watch him well,
Cúchulainn, Sualdam's son!
Now I see him in pursuit.
Whole hosts he will destroy,
making dense massacre.
In thousands you will yield your heads.
I am Fedelm. I hide nothing.
The blood starts from the warriors wounds
- total ruin - at his touch:
your warriors dead, the warriors
of Deda mac Sin prowling loose;
torn corpses, women wailing,
because of him - the Forge Hound.
