Siuḃal ċum cloiḋe sinn. This is peculiar. The ordinary form is siuḃal-amaois ċum cloiḋe. But the analytical form is used here for metrical reasons.
TRANSLATION.
I.
There was a woman long ago, and indeed it is long since she flourished, and her daughter died (she lost her daughter), and thereafter she said—“First, I heard the corncrake, and then I heard the cuckoo, and I knew that I would not prosper this year (that this year would not go with me).”
II.
There was another woman, who was going to her daughter’s wake, and she was walking so rapidly that persons said—“Look at the mad woman,” but what she said was—“I am not a mad woman, but a poor woman, With a heavy family, going to my child, a girl of twenty-one years of age, the mother of five children, who, to crown every other misfortune, are all girls (all female).”
III.
There was another woman again going to her brother’s wake, and she asked people who were returning home from their work, “Will the day rain until night?” and answering they said to her “If the day was one to split the trees (with the heat) [lit., if there was there a day of [the] splitting of the trees], we would not put a spade in [the] earth, until we should have settled [for] him in [on] the grave [lit., bed].
IV.
The Blind Beggar.
“Gentle woman of the house, send out (put out) your alms to the blind [man], wool or flax, or a piece of pig out of the pot [in which the dinner was presumably being prepared].”
The Housewife.
“Your wife was here yesterday, and you yourself [are here] to-day soon after her (lit., at her sole. Compare phrase—‘at her heels’).”
The Blind Beggar.
“My wife was not here yesterday. She is in the grave (lit., in the clay) and a head-stone over her, and, by the same token, my shirt is black on my back.”
V.
“It is raining, quoth the horse. It is violently, quoth the cow. A fine pleasant day, quoth the sheep. Let us walk to [the] ditch, quoth the goat.”
MICHEAL PADRAIG OH-ICEADHA, C.C.
CORK IRISH.
“Béiḋ ár n-dóiṫin araon ann.”
Is seo focal le Diarmuid an Stoca. Siud é an Diarmuid, nuair duḃairt an sagart leis gur “ġlas an lá é,” a ṫug mar ḟreagraḋ: “am briaṫar féin, a aṫair, go ḃ-fuil sé fuar p’é daṫ atá air.”
Ḃí aiṫne air Ḋiarmuid i ngoireaċt deiċ míle do Maiġ-cromḋa, air gaċ uile taoiḃ. Ḃí fáilte agus béile agus loisdín oiḋċe ḋo ans gaċ tig, boċt agus saiḋḃir, mar “duine le Dia“ b’ eaḋ é. Ṫuig sé in a aigne féin náċ raiḃ annsan aċt a ċeart. Dar leis, baḋ leis féin na tiġṫe agus na daoine. Dá m-beiḋeaḋ aṫas i d-tig, ní raiḃ duine ’sa tig sin baḋ ṁó áṫas dá ḃárr ná Diarmuid. Dá m-beiḋeaḋ buaḋairt i d-tig, ní raiḃ duine ’sa tig sin baḋ ṁó buaḋairt dá ḃárr ’ná Diarmuid. Nuair ḃí Boc na Carraige tar éis ḃáis, ċonnairc daoine Diarmuid ag dul fé ḋéin an tóraiṁ. Do laḃaradar leis, aċt níor ċuir sé suím air biṫ ionnta. Do leanadar air ċum cainte a ḃaint as. Fé ḋeireaḋ d’iompuiġ sé orṫa le feirg agus duḃairt. “Is mór an náire daoiḃ naċ leigfeaḋ siḃ dom féin aindiu, agus mo ċroiḋe briste, brúiġte, leis an g-creaċ atá air lár agam ann súd ṡuas!”
Níor ḃ’ḟéidir do ḋuine uasal cuireaḋ dínnéire a ċur amaċ gan ḟios do Ḋiarmuid, agus níḋ naċ iongna, ḃeiḋeaḋ Diarmuid ann le linn na h-uaire gan teip, gan dearmad, gan ċuireaḋ. Ċuir Doċtúir Mac Suiḃne cuireaḋ amaċ lá. Ḃuail Diarmuid soir fé ḋéin tíġe an Doċtúra. Ḃí sé tamall beag luaṫ. Fuair Diarmuid an geata air ḟosgailt agus baluiṫ breaġ air am n-gaoiṫ. Do lean sé an baluiṫ. Fuair sé dorus an tíġe ṁóir air fosgailt. Ċuaiḋ sé aisteaċ. D’ḟeuċ sé ’na ṫimċeall. Ḃí dorus air ḟosgailt air a laiṁ ḋeis. Ċuaiḋ sé aisteaċ airís. Ċonnairc sé an bórd mór. Ċonnairc sé an ṁias. Ċonnairc sé an ċos ċaoir-ḟeola. Ċuir sé a láṁ ḋeas ’na speir. Ċuir sé a láṁ ċlé ’na h-aḃall. Ċuir sé a ḃeul ’na lár go cluasaiḃ. Do ḋíriġ sé air é fein do ṫaċtaḋ air a ḋiċeall lé caoir-ḟeoil. D’airiġ an Doċtuir foṫram éigin. D’ḟeuċ dé amaċ ar an ḟuinneóig uaċtaraiġ. Ċonnairc sé an geata air dianleaṫaḋ. Ceap sé gur muc a ḃí d’éis teaċt aisteaċ. Siud anuas an staiġre é, agus
