Thursday, November 20, 2014

Page 299 (12.722-756) "(the italics are ours)... in another pint?"

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(the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather (as a contributor D.O.C. points out in an interesting communication published by an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note which is found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donald MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.

Little Sweet Branch [ebook]
Raftery [ebook]

The curse of my curses
Seven days every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you, Barney Kiernan,
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage,
And my guts red roaring
After Lowry's lights.

fdv: "Garryowen made answer and thus he spake, not in beurla, I ween: The curse of my curses/ Seven times every day/ And seven dry Thursdays/ On you, Barney Biernan/ Has no sup of water/ To cool my courage/ And my guts red roaring/ After Buckley's lights." [maybe just a misreading??]

2dv: "He opened his mouth and spoke in the tongue of the hated stranger: The curse of my curses/ Seven times every day/ And seven dry Thursdays/ On you Barney Kiernan/ Has no sup of water/ To cool my courage/ And my guts red roaring/ After Buckley's lights"

So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another.

fdv: "-- Bring us a saucer of water, young chap, ----- cried.
And at his behest the youthful Terence came and bare a silver ewer inwrought with findrinny and therein sparkled water of the most pure springs of Vartry and the glens and Lugnaquilla.
The poor brute lapped it up like old boots. He must have had a hell of a thirst. Good old doggy!
-- That's the language we want here, ----- cried. Down with the beurla. We want an Irish speaking Ireland. There was a meeting of those shoneens in the city hall today to have the Irish language... Here's the man can tell us."

— I will, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling.

Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for man and beast. And says Joe:

— Could you make a hole in another pint?




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