Cold, cold, chill tonight is wide Moylurg; the snow is higher than a mountain, the deer cannot get at its food.Eternal cold! The storm has spread on every side; each sloping furrow is a river and every ford is a full mere.
Each full lake is a great sea and each mere is a full lake; horses cannot get across the ford of Ross, no more can two feet get there.
The fishes of Ireland are roving, there is not a strand where the wave does not dash, and there is not a town left in the land, not a bell is heard, no crane calls.
The wolves of Cuan Wood do not get repose or sleep in the lair of wolves; the little wren does not find shelter for her nest on the slope of Lon.
Woe to the company of little birds for the keen wind and the cold ice! The blackbird with its dusky back does not find a bank it would like, shelter for its side in the Woods of Cuan.
Snug is our cauldron on its hook, restless the blackbird on Leitir Cró snow has crushed the wood here, it is difficult to climb up Benn Bó.
The eagle of brown Glen Rye gets affliction from the bitter cold; great is its misery and its suffering, the ice will get into its beak.
It is foolish for you -- take heed of it -- to rise from quilt and feather bed; there is much ice on every ford; that is why I say 'Cold!'
Irish;author unknown;eleventh century
Keen is the wind, bare the hill, it is difficult to find shelter; the ford is marred, the lake freezes, a man could stand on a single stalk.Wave after wave covers the shore; very loud are the outcries before the heights of the hill; scarcely can one stand up outside.
Cold is the bed of the lake before the tumult of winter; the reeds are withered, the stalks are broken, the wind is fierce, the wood is bare.
Cold is the bed of the fish in the shelter of the ice, the stag is thin, the reeds are bearded, short is the evening, the trees are bowed.
Snow falls, white is the surface, warriors do not go on their foray; cold are the lakes, their colour is without warmth.
Snow falls, white is the hoarfrost, idle is the shield on the old man's shoulder; very great the wind, it freezes the grass.
Snow falls on the top of the ice, the wind sweeps the crest of the close trees; fine is the shield on the brave man's shoulder.
Snow falls, it covers the valley; the warriors hasten to battle, I shall not go, a wound does not allow me.
Snow falls on the hillside, the horse is a prisoner, the cattle are lean; it is not like a summer day today . . .
Welsh;author unknown;eleventh century.
Comment: These passages from Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson's A Celtic Miscellany: Translations from the Celtic Literature give me the cold shivers. They're great August reading, but they make me feel the need for a heavier sweater when I read them in winter. I really enjoy reading that catches me into it.
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 "Gentle Lady" midi courtesy Tom Williams II. |
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