Hard Men
Is and sin tangatar cruiti Cainbile o Es Ruaid dia n-airfidedh.
Indar leo-sam ba do taisceladh forra ó Ulltaib tangatar,
& ruscat na sluaigh amharc forra go ndecatar i ndealbaibh
os n-allta uathadh icna coirtibh ic Lícc Moir, ar gebatar
Cruiti Cainbile at-bertí friú, batar go fir go moirfhios & co
morfaistine & draidhect iet. (TÁIN BÓ CUAILNGE)
’S ar n-oirfideachd air foirfeachd
a ruighinn a rinn an tìm a bhloighdeachadh,
dhùin ar cluasan ris an toirm bha tighinn
bho chuirm nan laoch, rin cabaireachd ’s i gòrach,
ri gliongar tana chuach ’s a h-uile othail
mhì-chiatach a dh’èireadh bho na bùird,
bòstaireachd, gealladh, glàmadh agus slugadh,
làmhan crèiseach a’ plubairt anns na bobhlan
cumanta, spòldan muic gan dinneadh sìos
an goilean bhiodh gan làn-sgeitheadh air ais
an ùine ghoirid – ’s thàinig boile-cath’ orr’!
Bùird gan tilgeil gu làr, is beingeannan
pùct’ a thaobh ri geur-sgrìobadh – ghlac
gach laoch a shleagh bhon bhalla, dh’fhosgail
gairm sgreamhail am beòil, is fiaclan grod’
a’ nochdadh, cop a’ chuthaich a’ grad-shileadh
bhon smigean, sùilean garga air an lasadh,
faobharan ’s iad lainnireach a’ boillsgeadh –
cha b’ adhbhar dàlach sin.
Gu h-obann chaidh
gach cruit à sealladh, ach dh’fhan guth nan teud
mar aodach reubt’ os cionn na gràisg, is bha
an talla air ar cùl, gaoth ghlan an leothaid
fhionnaire a’ suathadh ri ar seichean
mar làmhan sgileil, ’s iad gar ruagadh-ne!
Ach, luathghàireachd na rèis! Mo chuinneanan
gun fhois, is mi ’nam fhiadh, ’g atharrachadh
àile na h-oidhch’ gu grad ’na chòisir làn,
a spreigeadh is a bhrosnachadh gam bhòdhradh!
Mo bhod, ’s e ainmhidheach, gu dùrachdach
fàs rag le iomagain is spòrs! An linne
romhainn, clisgeadh goirid, thionndaidh sinn,
an ruaig a’ tighinn na b’ fhaisg’ oirnn, ùpraid ghuth,
glaodhach ’s ulfhart mhadadh, failleanan
mìn-chalgach a’ goirt-sgiùrsadh mo shlios,
sinn a’ streapadh ris an àird’ mu dheireadh
is ràinig sinn na cuilbh!
Mar gum b’ann
a leum fear seang, ’s e rùisgte, anns an allt
a b’ fhuaraidhe a gheibhte air an aonach,
dh’fhairich mi beum san stamaig, rionnagan
a’ spreadhadh ann an dorchadas gach sùl,
sàmhchair, is fad air falbh, cian fada,
fad a-muigh, na slaoightearan ’s iad air bàinidh,
a’ sgreuchail, sleagh no dhà gun fheum a’ bualadh
air cloich, le ràcanachd a bha ’na frionas
a-mhàin dor claisneachd reòta – domhain, trom,
gan cur air boil’, a’ dèanamh fanaid orra,
ar gàireachdaich ag èirigh do na reultan.
Translations of this Poem
Hard Men
Translator: Christopher Whyte
Then the harpers of Cain Bile came to them from
Ess Ruaid to entertain them with music. But they
thought that the harpers had come from the Ulstermen
to spy on them. So they hunted them until they went
before them into the pillar-stones at Leac Mòr in
the north, transformed into deer, for in reality they
were druids possessed of great occult knowledge.
(TÁIN BÓ CUAILNGE)
Our music reached a level of perfection
that shattered time, and our ears closed
to the uproar coming from the heroes’ banqueting
tables, their foolish chattering, the goblets’
tinkling and the whole unseemly din,
the boasting and wagering, as the gluttons
thrust clumsy hands into the common bowls
and gulped entire joints down they’d probably
vomit back up – and then they went berserk!
They threw the tables to the floor. The benches
shrieked. Each hero grabbed his spear
where it was hanging on the wall. Their mouths
opened in harsh cries, showing rotten teeth.
Slaver ran foaming from their chins,
their eyes were savage, flaming.
Polished blades gleamed brightly.
There was no sense in dallying!
All at once the viols vanished
even though the music lingered
like a torn cloth above the rabble.
The hall was at our backs, and the clean wind
of the cool slope caressed our hides
like skilful hands. The men were chasing after!
What an exultant race! My deer’s nostrils
made with their keenness a rich symphony
of the night air. Its stimulus and its
incitement deafened me. My animal sex
was rigid with danger, anxiety and fun!
Confronted by the pond, we wavered,
then veered, the hunt was getting closer,
clamorous voices, baying hounds. Prickly
twigs whipped at my flank as we
climbed the final slope and reached the pillars!
It was like a naked man plunging
into the chillest stream upon the hillside.
I felt a blow in my stomach, stars exploded
beneath my eyelids, then peace. Far away,
far in the distance, far outside, the frenzied
hooligans hurled a useless spear
or two against the stones. The noise was merely
an irritant to our frozen hearing.
Deep and heavy, maddening and mocking
them, our laughter rose into the sky.
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Crìsdean MacIlleBhàin
Christopher Whyte
Christopher Whyte has been an influential and controversial figure in Gaelic writing. His poetry together with his work as editor, translator and critic, have challenged assumptions about Gaelic poetry, while mapping out new territory for other poets to explore.Christopher Whyte
