قراءة كتاب Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 7
class="i0">A crimson cloak and a white tunic, a belt of silver, no paltry work!
My five-edged spear, a murderous lance, whose slaughters have been many;
A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used to swear binding oaths.
A shield with five circles and a boss of bronze, by which they used to swear binding oaths.
The white cup of my cup-bearer, a shining gem, will glitter before thee;
My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia Nar had brought them over the sea.
My golden finger-ring, my bracelets, treasures without a flaw, King Nia Nar had brought them over the sea.
Cailte's brooch, a pin with luck, it was one of his marvellous treasures:
Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small.
Two heads of silver round a head of gold, a goodly piece, though small.
My draught-board—no mean treasure!—is thine; take it with thee.
Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.
Noble blood drips on its rim, it lies not far hence.
Many a body of the spear-armed host lies here and there around its crimson woof;
A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the grave.
A dense bush of the ruddy oak-wood conceals it by the side of the grave.
As thou carefully searchest for it thou shouldst not speak much:
Earth never covered anything so marvellous.
Earth never covered anything so marvellous.
One half of its pieces are yellow gold, the other are white bronze;
Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought.
Its woof is of pearls; it is the wonder of smiths how it was wrought.
The bag for its pieces,—'tis a marvel of a story—its rim is embroidered with gold;
The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can open.
The master-smith has left a lock upon it which no ignorant person can open.
A four-cornered casket,—it is but tiny—made of coils of red gold;
One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly.
One hundred ounces of white bronze have been put into it firmly.
For it is of a coil of firm red gold, Dinoll the goldsmith brought it over the sea;
Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.[8]
Even one of its clasps only has been priced at seven slave-women.[8]
Memories describe it as one of Turvey's master-works:
In the time of Art—he was a luxurious king—'tis then Turvey, lord of many herds, made it.
In the time of Art—he was a luxurious king—'tis then Turvey, lord of many herds, made it.
Smiths never made any work comparable with it;
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
Earth never hid a king's jewel so marvellous.
If thou be cunning as to its price, I know thy children will never be in want;
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be destitute.
If thou hoard it, a close treasure, none of thy offspring will ever be destitute.
There are around us here and there many spoils of famous luck:
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes.
Horrible are the huge entrails which the Morrigan[9] washes.
She came to us from the edge of a spear, 'tis she that egged us on.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.
Many are the spoils she washes, terrible the hateful laugh she laughs.
She has flung her mane over her back—it is a stout heart that will not quail at her:
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!
Though she is so near to us, do not let fear overcome thee!
In the morning I shall part from all that is human, I shall follow the warrior-band;
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.
Go to thy house, stay not here, the end of the night is at hand.
Some one will at all times remember this song of Fothad Canann;
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my bequest.
My discourse with thee shall not be unrenowned, if thou remember my bequest.
Since my grave will be frequented, let a conspicuous tomb be raised;
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.
Thy trouble for thy love is no loss of labour.
My riddled body must now part from thee awhile, my soul to be tortured by the black demon.
Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly.
Save for the worship of Heaven's King, love of this world is folly.
I hear the dusky ousel that sends a joyous greeting to all the faithful:
My speech, my shape are spectral—hush, woman, do not speak to me!
My speech, my shape are spectral—hush, woman, do not speak to me!