06/11/2019
Ní binn do thorann lem thaoibh.
Ní binn do thorann lem thaoibh.
A mhacaoimh shaoir na bhfonn ngarbh.
Gé deacair dhúinn gan a chleith
Do b’fhearr liom thú do bheith marbh.
Do dhúireceochadh mairbh a huaigh.
Leis gach fuaim dá dtig ód shróin;
A chaomhthaigh luightear ‘im ghar
Is doiligh damh bheith dod chóir.
Dá mbeath ceachtar dhíobh ‘im chionn,
Do be lugha liom de ghuair
Gáir chaoilcheann ag tolladh chrann
Ná do shrann ag dul ‘im chluais.
Binne liom grafainn na muc
Ná gach guth lingear ód shróin;
Binne fós- ní bhiam dá cheilt
Gaineamh agá meilt i mbrón.
Binne bodharghuth lag laoigh
Díorcadh drochmhuilinn mhaoil bhrias,
Nó géir gairbh-eara chaor mbán
Le lingeadh de lán tar air.
Binne bloircbhéime na n-all
Ná gach srann dá dtig ót ucht
‘S binne donál na bhfaol
Ná gach claon chuirear tú id ghuth.
Binne guth lachan ar linn ná glothar
Do chinn id shuan
Agus is binne fá seacht
Fuaim garbhtonn ag teacht i gcuan.
Is binne búirthe na dtarbh,
Gáir chlogán, gé garbh an dórd;
Gol leinibh, go riabhradh cinn,
Is binne linn ná do ghlóir.
Mná in iodhnaibh go ngoimh ag gul
Gan átach ar scur dá mbrón,
Caoi chadan in oidhche fhuair,
Is binne ná fuaim do shrón.
Sceamhghal scine le scrois práir
Ní mhearaim gur páir dom cheann,
Ná géim cairte le chioch chruaidh,
Ón dord tig uait ar mo pheall.
Ceannghail tonn le creathaibh long
Uaill fhearchon, gé lonn a sian,
Is míle binne céad uair
Ná gach fuaim lingear ód chliabh.
Árach ní fhaghaim ar shuan,
Do tógbhadh leat gruag mo chinn;
Gach bolgfadhach tig ód cheann,
Dar Brighid, dar leam, ní binn.
This is a walking stick on which I inscribed with a very old poem in the irish language. I inscribed the poem in the old sean clò, which I really like. The poem itself is fairly self explanatory in its eternal theme of, ah, snoring. As a snorer myself, and also as a snoring survivor I feel I can relate.
It translates something like this.
Unplesant is you noise beside me.
My fine free man of the rough singing
It is hard for us not to hide
That I’d prefer if you were dead
You’d wake the dead in the grave
With every noise from your nose
Companion lying near me
Its hard for me being beside you.
If I had either of these to chose
I’d select as the lesser harm
To be near a woodpecker boring a tree
Instead of your snoring going into my ear.
More melodious to me is the grunting of pigs
Than every noise you release from your nose
More melodious still, I’m not hiding
Is sand being ground in a mill.
Melodious the weak lowing of calves
A creaking decrepit mill barely grinding
Or the rough waterfall roar in its white chaos
Rebounding and echoing back.
More melodious the dashing of cliffs
Than every snore from your breast.
And sweeter is the howling of wolves
Than every slant you put in your voice.
Melodious the voice of ducks on a pond.
Than the noise of your head in sleep
And seven times sweeter the
Sound of storm waves washing ashore.
Melodious the bellowing of bulls
The peal of a bell, a deep rough ringing
Tears of a child going through your head
Would sound sweeter than your noise
Women in childbirth in pain and crying
With no end in sight to their woes.
The crying of geese in the cold night
Are sweeter than the noise of your nose.
Screeching of knife scraped on brass
Couldnt cause more suffering for my head.
Or cart crunching over rough stones.
Than the noise you make on my pillow.
The pounding of waves on the hull of a ship
Wailing wild dogs planitvely howling
A hundred thousand times sweeter
Than the sounds springing forth from your chest.
It looks like I have no chance of sleeping
You have blown the hair from my head.
Each gust which comes from your skull.
By Brigid how discordant it is.
The translation is my own.
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