Below is a partial translation of the Irish War Goddess Badb’s delivered prophecy after the defeat at Mag Tuired of the Fomorians by the Tuatha Dé Danann. She augers the eventual end of the world, “foretelling every evil that would be therein, and every disease and every vengeance.”
[translation: celt.ucc.ie]
Middle Irish
Ni accus bith nombeo baid:
sam cin blatha,
beti bai cin blichda,
mna can feli
fir gan gail.
Gabala can righ...
feda cin mes.
Muir can toradh.
sen saobretha.
Brecfásach mbrithiom-
braithiomh
cech fer.
Foglaid cech mac.
Ragaid mac i lligie a athar.
Ragaid
athair a lligi a meic.
Cliamain cach a brathar.
Ni sia nech mnai assa
tigh...
olc aimser
immera mac a athair,
imera ingen...
English
I shall not see a world which will be dear to me:
Summer without blossoms,
Cattle will be without milk,
Women without modesty,
Men without valour.
Conquests without a king...
Woods without mast.
[fallen nuts or acorns]
Sea without produce...
False judgements of old men.
False precedents of lawyers,
Every man
a betrayer.
Every son a reaver.
The son will go to the bed of his father,
The father
will go to the bed of his son.
Each his brother's brother-in-law.
He will not seek any woman outside his
house...
An evil time,
Son will deceive his father,
Daughter will deceive...
7 responses to “Cath Dédenach Maige Tuired, “The Last Battle of Mag Tuired””
Apocalyptic. And congrats on the translation. That’s impressive.
I should not lay claim to the translation. I’ll fix the reference (i.e., add one). I must have been distracted.
There’s your old, old Irish, pre Cuchulainn🙂
My mind wandered towards the (very) old stories yesterday. ¯\(ツ)/¯
Still partial to Finn MacCool myself😉
The latter cycles have their charm, definitely.
If I were to search alone
The hills of the brown world
Better would I like my sole hut
In Glen Bolcain
Good its water greenish-green
Good its clean strong wind
Good its cress-green cresses,
Best its branching brooklime.
Good its sturdy ivies,
Good its bright neat sallow,
Good its yewy yew-yews,
Best its sweet-noise birch.
A haughty ivy
Growing through a twisted tree,
Myself on its true summit,
I would lothe leave it.
I flee before skylarks,
It is the tense stern-race,
I overleap the clumps
On the high hill-peaks.
When it rises in front of me
The proud turtle-dove,
I overtake it swiftly
Since my plumage grew.
The stupid unwitting woodcock
When it rises up before me,
Methinks it red-hostile,
And the blackbird that cries havoc.
Small foxes yelping
To me and from me,
The wolves tear them—
I flee their cries.
They journeyed in their chase of me
In their swift courses
So that I flew away from them
To the tops of mountains.
On every pool there will rain
A starry frost;
I am wretched and wandering
Under it on the peak.
The herons are calling
In cold Glen Eila
Swift-flying flocks are flying,
Coming and going.
I do not relish
The mad clack of humans
Sweeter warble of the bird
In the place he is.
I like not the trumpeting
Heard at morn;
Sweeter hearing is the squeal
Of badgers in Benna Broc.
I do not like it
The loud bugling;
Finer is the stagbelling stag
Of antler-points twice twenty.
There are makings for plough-teams
From glen to glen;
Each resting-stag at rest
On the summit of the peaks.
Brian O’Nolan; At Swim-Two-Birds