Cath Dédenach Maige Tuired, “The Last Battle of Mag Tuired”

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...

michael raven

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7 responses to “Cath Dédenach Maige Tuired, “The Last Battle of Mag Tuired””

  1. Bob Avatar
    Bob

    Apocalyptic. And congrats on the translation. That’s impressive.

    Reply
    1. michael raven Avatar
      michael raven

      I should not lay claim to the translation. I’ll fix the reference (i.e., add one). I must have been distracted.

      Reply
  2. shredbobted Avatar
    shredbobted

    There’s your old, old Irish, pre Cuchulainn🙂

    Reply
    1. michael raven Avatar
      michael raven

      My mind wandered towards the (very) old stories yesterday. ¯⁠\⁠⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠⁠/⁠¯

      Reply
      1. shredbobted Avatar
        shredbobted

        Still partial to Finn MacCool myself😉

        Reply
        1. michael raven Avatar
          michael raven

          The latter cycles have their charm, definitely.

          Reply
          1. shredbobted Avatar
            shredbobted

            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

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