...with my best wishes for a joyful & peaceful Easter to all who celebrate it.
|
as: Tair Cucum, a Maire Boíd Blathmac Mac Con Brettan |
Medieval Irish Lyrics edited & translated by James Carney Berkeley & Dublin: Univ. of California Press & The Dolmen Press, 1967 |
| Notes on the text |
from: To Mary & Her Son - translation by James Carney |
Tair cucum, a Maire boíd
do choíniuth frit do rochoím;
dirsan dul fri croich dot mac
ba mind már, ba masgérat.
Co tochmurr frit mo di láim
ar do macind irgabáil:
Ísu con-atoí do brú,
nícon fochmai th’ógai-siu.
***
Cotn-abairt cen phecath fir,
do-forsat cen chneid ngalair;
rot-nert cen chumaid – cain rath! –
isind aimsir hi crochad.
Cair, in cualaid mac am-ne
con-meset a trede-se?
Ni tuidchid for lesa ban
ocus nicon gignethar.
Primgein De Athar fri nem
do mac, a Maire ingen;
ro-laithreth hi combairt glain
tri rath spirto sechtndelbaig.
Nícon fúair athair samlai,
a Maire, do macamrai;
ferr fáith, fisidiu cech druí,
rí ba hepscop, ba lánsuí.
Sainemlu cech dóen a chruth,
brestu cech sóer a balcbruth,
gaíthiu cech bruinniu fo nim,
fíriánu cech breithemain.
Maisiu, meldchu, mó macaib;
ó boí ina becbrataib
ru-fes a ndo-regad de,
gein tessairgne sochuide.
Sóer a ngein ro-génair úait,
rot-rath, a Maire, mórbúaid;
Críst mac Dé Athar do nim,
éron-ucais i mBeithil.
***
Rom-bet mo théor aicdi lat
a Maire mass muingelnat;
at-ethae, a grian na mban,
ót mac conid-midethar.
Mo buith for bith comba sen
la fíadait follnas rindnem,
ocus fáilte frium iar sin
isin mbithflaith mbithsuthain.
Cech óen díamba figel se
fo lige ocus éirge
ar imdídnad dianim tall
amail lúirech co cathbarr.
Cách no-géba do cach deilb
i troscud aidchi Sathairnn
acht rob fo déraib cen meth,
a Maire, níb ifernach.
Fri tuidecht do maic co feirc
cona chroich fria ais imdeirc,
ara soírthar lat in tan
nach carae nod-coínfedar.
Airiut, a Maire co llí,
rega-sa i n-aitiri;
cach gébas in coíniud nglan
ra-mbia a thuarastal.
Dot-guar co foclaib fíraib,
a Maire, a maisrígain,
con roimrem cobrai ma tú
do airchisecht do cridi-siu.
Conro-choíner Críst as glé
frit-su tucht bas n-incride,
a lie lógmar laindrech,
a máthair in mórchoimdeth.
Ce chon-messinn co cach rían
doíni betho fo móenmíad
do-regtis lim ocus lat
conro-choíntis do rígmac.
Do lámchomairt cen moraich
mnáib macaib ferolaib
conro-choíntis for cach dind
ríg do-rósat cach n-óenrind.
Nacha cumgaim; ciche féin
do mac frit-su co daigléir
acht do-dichis-siu nach ré
do chélidiu cucum-sae.
Do airchisecht chridi cen on
con roirem ar ndiabor,
a chond na creitme glaine,
tair cucum, a boídMaire.
Come to me, loving Mary,
that I may keen with you your very dear one;
Alas! The going to the cross of your son,
that great jewel, that beautiful champion.
That with you I might beat my two hands
for your fair son’s captivity.
Your womb has conceived Jesus -
it has not marred your virginity.
***
You have conceived him and no sin with man,
you brought him forth without ailing wound;
without grief he strengthened you (fair grace!)
at the time of his crucifixion.
I ask: have you heard of a son like this,
one who could do these three things?
Such has not come upon the thighs of women
and such will not be born.
The first-begotten of God, the Father, in heaven
is your son, Mary, virgin;
he was begotten in a pure conception
through the power of the septiform Spirit.
No father has found, Mary,
the like of your renowned son;
better he than prophet, wiser than druid,
a king who was bishop and full sage.
His form was finer than that of other beings,
his stout vigour greater than any craftsman’s,
wiser he than any breast under heaven,
juster than any judge.
More beautiful, more pleasant, bigger than other boys,
since he was in his swaddling clothes;
it was known what would come of him,
a being for the saving of multitudes.
Noble the being born from you!
You were granted, Mary, a great gift;
Christ, son of the father in Heaven,
him have you borne in Bethlehem.
***
May I have from you my three petitions,
beautiful Mary, little white-necked one;
get them, sun amongst women,
from your son who has them in his power.
That I may be in the world till old,
serving the Lord who rules starry heaven,
and that then there be a welcome for me
into the eternal, ever-enduring kingdom.
That everyone who uses this as a vigil prayer
at lying down and at rising,
that it may protect him from blemish in the other world
like a breastplate and helmet.
Everyone of every sort who shall recite it
fasting on Friday night,
provided only that it be with full-flowing tears,
Mary, may he not be for hell.
When your son comes in anger
with his cross on his reddened back,
that then you will save
any friend who shall have keened him.
For you, beautiful Mary,
I shall go as guarantor:
anyone who says the full keen,
he shall have his reward.
I call you with true words,
Mary, beautiful queen,
that we may have talk together
to pity your heart’s darling.
So that I may keen the bright Christ
with you in the most heartfelt way,
shining precious jewel,
mother of the great Lord.
Were I rich and honoured,
ruling the people of the world to every sea,
they would all come with you and me
to keen your royal son.
There would be beating of hands
by women, children and men,
that they might keen on every hill-top
the king who made every star.
I cannot do this. With heartfelt feeling
I will bewail your son with you
if only you come at some time
on a visit to me.
Come to me, loving Mary,
you head of unsullied faith,
that we may have talk together
with the compassion of unblemished heart.
Notes: In the introduction to Medieval Irish Lyrics, Carney writes about this poem:
"… [this] poem… consists of extracts from a much longer poem. Some years ago in the National Library of Ireland I was fortunate enough to come across twenty-three pages of Irish verse which by a curious mischance had not hitherto come under the notice of scholars. Though the manuscript was seventeenth century, the verse was some nine hundred years earlier; the greater part of it was by a poet who was unknown save for his name, Blathmac son of Cú Brettan son of Congus. Blathmac was of the Fir Rois; in otherwords he came from an area covering parts of the counties of Louth and Monaghan. His father, who was king of the Fir Rois, had some part in the battle of Allen in 722 and died in 740. His brother Donn Bó died about 759, so we can reasonably date these poems to somewhere in the second half of the eighth century."
