In honour of the upcoming Winter issue of Studies, which will focus on language, the landscape, and the life and work of Manchán Magan, this week’s archival blog presents two translations of Irish bardic poetry by Lambert Mckenna SJ. The poems below – A Poet Boasts of His Skill and A Poet Attacks A Boastful Fellow Poet were published across the March and June 1951 issues of Studies.
The Irish bardic poetic tradition flourished for over 1,000 years – in addition to his lifelong love and promotion of the Irish language, Manchán was a distant relative of Aogán Ó Rathaille; widely considered to be the last great poet of the Irish bardic school.
Lambert McKenna SJ was an influential Irish-language scholar and catholic social thinker, who published numerous editions of bardic poems throughout his life. For more information, please visit his entry on the Dictionary of Irish Biography.
Lambert McKenna, ‘Some Irish Bardic Poems XCVII. A Poet Boasts of His Skill’, Studies: An Irish Review, Vol. 40, No. 157 (Mar., 1951), 93 – 96. JSTOR link: https://www.jstor.org/stable/30100366
Lambert McKenna, ‘Some Irish Bardic Poems: A Poet Attacks a Boastful Fellow-Poet’, Studies: An Irish Review, Vol. 40, No. 158 (Jun., 1951), 217 – 222. JSTOR link: https://www.jstor.org/stable/30100391
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Mór an feidhm deilbh an dána
baoth don dreim nach diongmhála
car re céadfaidh mo cheirde,
téachtmhuir ghlan na Gaoidheilge.
An t-oigéan dorcha domhuin,
an sruth aidhbhseach éagsomail,
ní (fios) acht baos righe ris,
ní slighe d’aos an ainbhis.
Drong anbháil don aos dána
gabhaid d’iarraidh anára
ilchearda uara re a n-ais,
rithlearga uama an iomhais.
Le neart ainbhis dá n-aslach
labhruid – lór do dhíomussruth,
gé thig sár a n-iomráidh as –
glár nach ionráidh dá n-eolas.
(An t-aos dána) ceann a gceann
tearc gá bhfuil fios a gcoingeall,
slighe ána ónab uaisle mé,
grádha uaisle na héigse.
A haisde diamhra docra,
a hilchearda ionganta,
tiad gan deaghcuma ón droing bhuig,
roinn eaturra ní fhéaduid.
An tan thagraid rer oile
ní cás don aos eagnoidhe
dul ó dhiomdhaidh na tuagh tais
tre lionnmhuir uar an iomhais.
Do bhreith na suadh iar sodhain
na hoide na hollomhain,
fagháil anma ní dleacht dáibh
gan seacht ngarma do ghabháil.
Fochlag, Mac Fuirmidh feasach,
Dos, Clí na gceard neimhcheasach,
fiu an (daghbhoth), a chara, a cradh,
Cana, Anshruth is Ollamh.
Gé táid foghraidh ‘n-a bhfochair
bhíos anbhfann a n-ealothain,
a ngrádha foirfe as siad sin
doirche iad acht ar oidibh.
Ar ngabháil na ngrádh suthain
ní thabhraim troigh mhearuchaidh
‘n-a rianaibh doilghe budh deacht,
ní diamhair oirne a n-imtheacht.
Dá n-abradh daoi (clod) dhaoidhibh
tre mheisge dtruim dtathaoirigh
ní riomsa nach do réir ghráidh
(dom) chéill dob ionnsa an admháil.
Teagmháil riom tar éis m’ionnlaigh
do badh ceann i gcaithiorghail,
nó cosg muire i dtragh do theacht
nó snámh tuile dá treiseacht.
Nó déanamh brogha as a bharr
nó bas do (bhearnadh bearann)
nó cor eich tre fháinne slán
nó breith ar sgáile a sgáthán.
A gceardcha na ceasd ndorcha
do sgiamhas sgath m’ealathna;
a hucht a troide as teann sinn
na hoide dob fhearr d’Éirinn.
Do iarras go foirfe ar gceird
na trí tighe a-tá a nGaoidheilg;
mairg dan dualas déagsoin ruinn
ní ar éansgoil fhuaras m’fhoghluim.
The writing of poetry is a big task;
’tis folly for unqualified folk to concern themselves
with the inner nature of my craft,
the shining ice-bound sea of Gaoidhealg.
That dark deep ocean,
that wondrous strange stream –
to face it were foolishness;
it is no safe way for ignorant folk.
Among professional poets
there are some queer people who in their desire for a reputation
produce all kinds of tedious verses
and even rhetorics interwoven with poetic matter.
In their great ignorance they attack the poets, and use –
’tis great presumption on their part though disgrace on their own name comes of it –
unwarranted language about their own learning.
Few possess qualifications for the poetic profession,
the high degrees of poetry,
that course which has gained me my renown.
Poetry’s mysterious baffling metres
and its many peculiar patterns
are produced in clumsy form by those stupid people who cannot even see
the distinction between them.
When learned folk dispute, they find,
on their journey over the cold calm sea of poetic lore,
no difficulty in escaping the furious attack of (foes with) blood-dripping axes.
According, then, to the sages, it is not lawful
for Teachers or Ollamhs to be so styled
unless they have acquired the Seven Degrees
A Fochlog, a learned Mac Fuirmidh,
a Dos, a Clí with his deft productions,
a Cana, an Anshruth, an Ollamh –
the rich productions of these (alone) are worthy of their (origin in a) composition-hut.
Other inferior Degrees, poor in lore, exist,
but the ones I have mentioned are the perfect ones;
they are full of difficulties except for Masters.
As I have got the final Degrees,
I make no false step in their difficult courses;
to go over their courses is nothing difficult for me.
If in some fit of sottish abusive drunkenness
one of your dolts were to write something offensive to my Degree
my good sense would compel me to ignore it.
To face me and contend with me
would be like putting one’s head between two combatants,
or stopping the sea from flooding the shore,
or swimming against a current of great strength.
Or building a house from the roof down,
or boxing one’s way through a line of sharp spears,
or drawing a whole horse through a finger-ring,
or seizing an image in a mirror.
‘Twas in a smithy where folk hammer out strange problems
that I have perfected my best poems;
now I can face a fight with the best Masters in Éire.
I have gone carefully into all my profession, the Three Mansions of Gaoidhealg;
’twill go hard with anyone who has to face me
for I have acquired my learning in many schools.
Experts in my work can find no blister on its texture;
all the stuff I have woven comes from the inner store of Masters and Poets.
My Fochlog Degree makes me more formidable;
as for my command of the language
of the lore-bubbles, no poet has ever belittled me.
Folk who have never gone beneath the surface of poetry
had better not strive with me;
I have explored every foot of the surface of that sea.
I have swum on the clear streams of lore,
and have purified my work in them;
I am a Teacher and a Master.
My training authorises me to dogmatise about poetry
to those folk who are ignorant of it
and make them sorry
for ever having mentioned the subject at all.
A Poet Attacks A Boastful Fellow-Poet
GOFRAIDH MAC AN BHAIRD cc.
A fhir shealbhas duit an dán,
coimseach re cách do bhéalrádh;
a dhuine maith, mas maith sibh
do mhaith ní maith gan mhaoidhimh.
Níor thógbhais má tharla rot
seanrann do-róineadh reomhot:-
“neach féin go mór dá mholadh
céim is lór dá lochtoghadh.”
Do thiomsaighthe teasd molta
ad dhán d’fhoclaibh arrachta
dá cor a n-eagar ort féin
eagal a thocht ‘n-a thoibhéim.
Bheith duitse ad bhreitheamh bhalach,
‘s ad chroinicidh comhramhach,
an t-ainmsin dá rádha ribh,
‘s ad thairsigh Dhána Dírigh.
‘Sé dá rádh go riacht tusa
go finit a bhforusa
seacht ngráidh na bhfileadh ar fad
sighean do-cháidh tar chumhag.
Go rángabhar roighne a ceard
na trí tighe a dtá an Ghaoidhealg,
gan fhocal is lugha libh
docar do thugha thairsibh.
Ná fill ó fhocal éidigh,
fríoth leatsa ‘s led leithéidibh
áth ar an aimsir a-nos;
faillsigh do chách do chumus.
Aduimh marbhtha míle fear,
lá an mhórchatha (ar Mhuigh) Thuireadh,
mar admhus sibhse seacht ngráidh;
do cheart irse an dá admháil.
Do-chuaidh sgaoileadh fa sgolaibh,
díosg ar ndul fan ealodhain,
a-tá do theannfhacal libh,
neambacadh trá ar do thuislibh.
Teidhm ar chách ag cur as-teagh,
ionnlach suadh, (soidhealbh) mhaoidhmheadh,
t’eagla ar an gcarsain (dod) chur,
freagra arsaidh gan ughdar.
Teanga líomhtha gan lorg sgol,
sruth maoidhmheach fa mhian tuathadh,
mar taoi go tuile as do ghion
saoi do dhuine ní dhingniodh.
Bíd daoine ag na bíd bearta
chanfas caint na himearta;
ná (brath) ar a mbéalaibh sain
féaghaidh le (cath) an chearrbhaigh.
Ná daoine ar ndul at aithne
liaide lucht do bhreathnaighthe;
fear slimbearta dá rádh ruibh
glár na (himearta) aguibh.
Do tbaidhbhse dána dalbhuigh,
t’iarraidh anma a n-ealadhnuibh,
súr ceana is meisde do mhodh,
meisge fa-deara a dhéanamh.
Ní d’abhras saor na seacht ngrádh
snáth t’oige ar aha iomrádh;
a shnas ar a shníomh ní fhuil,
gach gníomh dar chas fad chrobhuibh.
Níor leanais a ló a fighthe
roinn mholta, modh oibrighthe,
an mhaoloige do mhaoidh sibh;
daoroide dhaoibh do dhéichsin.
Ar na hocht n-iairmbéarla déag
deimhin nach dearnais coimhéad
lá a ndealbhtha, “cheana”, “ce chuin”,
beara dealbhtha tar dréachtuibh.
Innsgne a n-ionad a chéile,
ainm a n-ionad tuilréime,
réim (sunna) a n-ionad anma
cuma iodhan t’ealadhna.
Snáithe gearr ad ghréas slámach
snáithe meallach meangánach,
rer oile d’fhighe go glan
file oile ní fhéadfadh.
A n-áitibh ar-oile soin
ciall chomhnuidhe ciall shiubhoil,
maoithe is maoile a nbhur ndán,
caoiche claoine agus cleathrámh.
Neimhtheacht céille, cúis fhollas,
gnás ann agus ionannas,
seirbhe ráidh, gnúise garbha,
táin nach cúise ceanamhla.
Dearbh go n-uair th’oige dhána
meath a muilleann t’ucála
d’éis chara ad dháinghréassa dheit
láinléasa tana treimheit.
Duitse acht nach léir do lochta,
do theisd ní teisd ionmholta;
t’uaill ag adhnadh asuibh féin
lasuir gan adhbhar eiséin.
Sguir feasda do labhra lán,
doirbh dod bhéal bheith ag siorrádh
gan ghabháil re glór ar bioth,
mór dot anáil nach dlighthioch.
Dámadh éidir eisdeacht dait
masa bhinn gach ní neamhait
as orghán bhur n-ionad feas
‘s do lonnán ionnad d’ainbhios.
Adhbhar sbéise do sbroigeacht,
cúis aithis bhar n-ardoideacht,
gidh (do) bhéilshlighe bhalg bhfis
is dréimire ard anbhfis.
Gidh glórach ghabhthaoi ret ais
asgnamh na n-aigéan n-iomhais
(iul eisde) go bhfaghadh sibh
meisde gan anadh idir.
Uirre má taoise treorach
feidhm ós niort é d’fhíreolach
an mhuir mhaoidhe do thomhas
saoidhe fhuil ‘n-a hamharas.
Gidh diongmhála, a-deir tusa,
a sealbhadh (d’) fhior eolasa
mór an feidhm dealbh an dána
do dhealbh ní deilbh dhiongmhála.
Ar dhlúth ar inneach t’oige
tarla tacha banchoige;
a deilbh gan déanamh go se
meirbh le a féaghadh a fighe.
A fhir
My friend who has such pretensions to poetic art,
folk find your language rather extravagant;
if you are so good, my good man,
your goodness is well advertised!
You don’t apply to yourself
– if you have ever heard of it! –
the ancient verse: “Self-praise provokes dispraise.”
The piles of epithets with their bombastic language
in your poetry would, I fear,
did anyone apply them to yourself,
turn to your confusion.
For instance those descriptions you give of yourself,
“a splendid judge”,
“a superb chronicler”,
“a threshold of Dan Direach.”
And your claim to have reached
the very furthest point of the Poets’ Seven Degrees
– a diploma quite beyond your reach!
It is difficult
– without saying things you will not like –
to refute your saying
that you have succeeded in making the very best products
of the Three Mansions where Gaoidhealg dwells.
You and poets like you
have got over the refinement of modern ways;
don’t shrink from any expression however nasty;
show off your talent!
You say that a thousand heroes
were slain on the great day of Magh Tuireadh,
and you say too that you have passed Poetry’s Seven Degrees;
those two statements (equally absurd) show what is your real claim to be thought learned.
The schools are dispersed,
art is dried up,
you can therefore now talk wildly,
there is nothing to stop your clumping along.
A plague afflicting the world at present is poets’ abusiveness,
their perfect freedom to make boasts,
their out-of-date and unauthorised answers to problems –
’tis our fear of you that enables you to go on this way.
A smooth tongue regardless of schools’ rules,
a flood of big talk to please groundlings
– the way you let such stuff pour from your mouth
can never make a poet of any man.
There are folk, who,
when they have no way of winning a trick, take to bluffing;
don’t mind a gambler’s words,
keep your eye on his play
The more people come to know you,
the more critics you shall have;
your bluffing will get for you the name of a sharper.
Your show of pretentious poetry,
your attempt at shining in the arts,
your search for success –
if it does not get you much further
-are all due to a kind of intoxication.
Not of the noble yarn of the Seven Degrees
is the stuff of your pretentious work;
there is no neatness of texture in those pieces of poetry,
which have gone askew beneath your hands.
When weaving that clumsy work that you talk so much about,
you don’t observe the proper arrangement of an adjective or the proper mood of a verb;
you let it be seen you had a poor master.
Plainly you have no grasp on the eighteen iairmbéarlas when,
against all the rules,
you put cheana and ce chuin as finals.
One innsgne put for another,
a nominative instead of a dative,
a réim instead of a nominative
– a nice kind of art is yours!
In your ragged work one line is too short,
another though looking all right is wrongly formed
– no other poet could with any credit to himself have woven such lines together.
Rest-construction and motion-construction
are put one for the other in your work,
also stupidity(?), silliness(?), riming of a word with itself,
unmetrical words, want of symmetry.
Discrepancies, obviousness, platitude,
tautology, cacophony, wrong alliteration –
not a very attractive lot of faults!
Your poetic work has certainly been ruined in your tucking-mill,
for you have let a long thin blister run through its fabric.
Your repute as a poet is poor,
though you yourself can not see your faults;
your self-satisfaction is a flame with nothing to feed on.
Cease your mouthing; ’tis hard on your lips to be always in motion
without ever happening on anything worth saying;
much of your breath is used in breaking rules of speech.
Only when you give up talking,
or when ugly things begin to be admired
– only then can that knowledge,
now bursting out from you while inside you are full of ignorance,
be compared with the music of an organ.
Your abuse (of any man) is a reason for respecting him;
contempt is what you get from your dogmatising,
your mouthing of knowledge-bubbles,
your climbing up a high ladder of ignorance.
Though in boastful fashion
you undertake to face the oceans of knowledge and thence (?) get wisdom,
‘twould be better for you to be slow about it?
As you pretend familiarity with that sea
which you boast of having explored,
that is ( – let me tell you – )
a feat beyond the power of many a poet;
he is a wise man who hesitates about it
‘Tis right – as you say – that the poetic gift be possessed by a man of learning,
still the composing of poetry is a mighty task;
your composition is unworthy of the name.
The web and woof of your work show
that you need a woman-cook to help you!;
poor indeed is the make-up of your new-fangled stuff/
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