“Fuist,” “Whisht,” “Éist,” and “Is Binn BĂ©al ina Thost”

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As you may have figured out, based on the one English spelling above, these are all ways to either firmly request or circuitously insinuate that someone should be silent.  We see yet another variation, “whist,” in our Gaelic resource de la semaine, Mary Pat Kelly’s Galway Bay.  In one spelling or another, the word shows up in sources from both Ireland and Scotland, such as:

 

1) “Whist! your honour, whist!” ejaculated Paddy. “I’m only desaving the beast.” (from “A Knowing Horse,” a 19th-century humorous Irish anecdote; “your honour” here is a passenger in a chaise, not a judge!)

 

2) “But you can’t just tell Charlie* to hold his whisht,” P. J. Mara, quoted by Gene Kerrigan in Magill magazine.  Kudos to those who know which Charlie is intended.  Freagra thíos.

 

3) “Michael put his finger on my lips, so gentle.  “Whist, Honora, a stór.  We’ll manage.” Mary Pat Kelly, Galway Bay

 

4) “Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht,” Robert Burns, The Vision

 

 5) “
 whisht, hinny; whisht, my bonnie man, and let’s hear what they’re doing. Deil’s in ye, will ye whisht?,” Sir Walter Scott, Guy Mannering.

 

“Fuist” is more or less equivalent to “whisht,” but “whisht” seems to get translated as â€œĂ©ist” (lit. listen).  The latter typically shows up in the phrase â€œĂ©ist do bhĂ©al.”  Hmm, that’s literally “listen your mouth.”  If that translation seems a bit awkward, one could think of it more as “silence your mouth” or “make your mouth silent,” which would certainly facilitate listening!  And I can think of at least a few gaotairĂ­ (windbags) who might profit from the advice.

 

As to which came first, “Fuist!” in Irish or “Whisht” in English, I think it’s a bit of a “scĂ©al faoin sicĂ­n agus faoin ubh,” since “whisht” also existed in Middle English (ca. 14th century).  “Éist,” of course, is a longstanding Irish word and is widely used in its perfectly straightforward sense, “listen.”  One recurring sample, pluralized to “ÉistigĂ­,” is notable as the opening invocation of many a DaltaĂ­ na Gaeilge meeting.  Those of you who have attended will never forget the athshondas athfhuaimneach as “ár Liam” interjectionally enjoins the group to silence, as Merriam-Webster would have it, or as we might say with modern bluntness, tells everyone to “shaddup.”

 

Finally, for those who favor “timchaint” as opposed to “giorraisce,” we have the seanfhocal.  Literally, “Is binn bĂ©al ina thost,” means “It’s sweet, a mouth in its silence.” A related but more direct command would be “BĂ­ i do thost” (be in your silence).  Some day we’ll have to give the “squeaky wheels” their due and acknowledge that there can also be some value in speaking up and/or getting greased!  But proverbial wisdom is not necessarily consistent, as the “too many cooks” vs. “two heads” dilemma shows us.  How about one two-headed cook, Ă  la Zaphod Beeblebrox?  Not that he was really a cook, as I recall.  Maybe I’ve just been dwelling on this particular blog beagĂĄn rĂłfhada?  Am do bheagĂĄn scĂ­the! 

 

*Freagra: Cén Séarlas?  Which Charles? 

First hint, a shloinne i nGaeilge: Ó hEochaidh.  Leid a DĂł:  His surname means “horseman,” which could be simply an accident of ancestry and naming, but this particular Ó hEochaidh was also known as “Irish bloodstock’s great benefactor.”  ComhtharlĂș nĂł sna gĂ©inte (genes)?

 

So, the answer is, as you may have figured out, Charles James Haughey (Cathal SĂ©amas Ó hEochaidh, 1925-2006), former Taoiseach of Ireland.  You might be wondering, “Where’s the [word for horse] capall?” if the name means “horseman.”  It’s not part of this name, which is based on “each” [akh], steed, a more literary word for “horse” and also a cognate of “equus.”  Ó hEochaidh is often spelled Ó hEachaidh. 

 

Nótaí: athshondas athfhuaimneach [AH-HUN-duss AH-OO-im-nyakh], resounding resonance (sorry for the athluaiteachas (tautology, lit. “re-referring”) but I can’t really find two different enough English words to be neamhathluaiteach (non-tautological) here for the translation.

 

 

 

 

 

An Ghaeilge sa Leabhar _Galway Bay_: “Guilpín,” “Grá” agus Go Leor Eile

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OĂ­che FhĂ©ile Eoin, an 23Ăș lĂĄ de MhĂ­ an Mheithimh, 1839, i mBearna, Co. na Gaillimhe.  We’ve been talking quite a bit lately about Samhain, but now we’ll jump 2.5 seasons forward, and discuss some of the Irish phrases used in the highly praised novel, Galway Bay, by Mary Pat Kelly.  The author is currently on tour sna StĂĄit Aontaithe and might be coming go dtĂ­ do cheantar fĂ©in (to your area, if it’s PA, CT, or CO).

 

The opening setting of the book is as described above, St. John’s Night, June 23rd, 1839, in the fishing village of Barna, just west of Galway.  Many of the characters are based on the author’s own ancestors and would have been Irish speakers.  Although the novel is written i mBĂ©arla, Irish phrases are sprinkled ar fud an leabhair, giving local flavor and some extra incentive to foghlaimeoirĂ­ na teanga. 

 

While many ĂșrscĂ©alta stairiĂșla adopt this literary style, most don’t carry it through to the extent that Kelly does.  The gluais at the end of the book could easily be twice as long if Kelly had glossed all the examples of Irish in the book.  She says it’s intended to be “helpful, not definitive,” so it doesn’t include absolutely every occurrence of Irish.  The glossary stands at trĂ­ leathanach, and unlike many glossaries, includes fuaimnithe (pronunciations).  That’s three pages without getting into the meanings of family and place names, which are sometimes examined in the course of the novel, and which could easily triple mĂ©id na gluaise.  I’m not going to vouch for all the spellings, but the flavor and background is certainly there.   Some are Gaeilge go hiomlĂĄn, some are galldaithe (anglicized), and some are idir eatarthu.  Which more or less reflects the situation of two languages in contact.

 

Seo cĂșpla sampla:

 

guilpín, a lout (GYIL-peen).  I wouldn’t really advise calling anyone a guilpín, but if you do, remember that in direct address, the word gets lenited, just like proper names, with “h” added after the first consonant.  So it becomes, “a ghuilpín,” and is pronounced with the voiced velar fricative, i.e. deep in the throat, not the regular “g.”  

 

On the more affectionate side, we have a range of terms of endearment, such as “a ghrá” (love), also pronounced with the voiced velar fricative, “a ghrĂĄ mo chroĂ­,” (love of my heart), which has both the voiced (gh) and the voiceless velar fricative (ch), and the far simpler (pronunciation-wise) “a rĂșn” (dear).  For that, you just need the Irish flapped “r,” like the very beginning of a trill, but cut short.  You might also recognize an Irish term of endearment that has actually become popular lately as a girl’s name, alanna, from leanbh ([LYAN-uv, note it’s two syllables] child).  These phrases are, of course, all in direct address, which accounts for the particle “a” at the beginning of each phrase.  In the case of “alanna,” it’s “ionsuite” (built-in). 

 

Some place name elements are also explained, like tobar (well), ráth (ring fort), and ard (a height, high place).  We also get some terms for buttercups, honeysuckle, and St. Dabeoc’s heath, but I’ll let you discover those for yourself!

 

 

As for St. John’s Night, aka Bonfire Night, this coincides closely to Midsummer according to the Celtic calendar, where an samhradh started on LĂĄ Bealtaine (May 1).  So it’s surely not by chance that Kelly’s novel starts at this time of year, imbuing every action with embedded meaning for the future.  The protagonist (and the actual sinsinseanmhĂĄthair of Kelly herself) is Honora Kelly, and suffice it to say here that the events of that St. John’s dawn determine the question of an clochar vs. an saol pĂłsta.   Not deliberate divination, as might have occurred on OĂ­che Shamhna, but nevertheless, we basically have the appearance of a strainsĂ©ir ard dubh, and the fact that his first appearance is in his “culaith lĂĄ breithe” (to semi-coin a phrase), no doubt keeps the reader “gafa” (engaged). 

 

Remaining tour events are in Villanova, PA (Nov. 3), Fairfield, CT (Nov. 7), and Ft. Collins, CO (Nov 22) and details are available at www.MaryPatKelly.com

 

Fuaimnithe: fhĂ©ile [AYL-yeh, silent “f”], mhĂ­ an Mheithimh [vee un VEH-hiv, note 3 silent m’s]; go dtĂ­ [guh djee]; leathanach [LYA-hun-ukh]; sinsinseanmhĂĄthair [shin-shin-shan-WAW-hirzh],

 

samhradh [sow-ruh or sow-roo, with the “sow” like American “cow” or “now”].  Again, I’m bailing out for pronunciation based on na gutaí Albanacha, or even some of the gutaí Briotanacha, at least for now.  Soon I’ll need a pronunciation guide for the pronunciation guide!  The IPA for this sound is /au/, if that helps. 

 

 

Bia FĂĄistineachta um Shamhain: BairĂ­n Breac (Barmbrack) agus CĂĄl Ceannann (Colcannon)

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One could fill a volume on nósanna Oíche Shamhna (Halloween customs), and indeed, it has been done.  But I’ll wrap-up this year’s season with a discussion of some of the ways that ordinary foods can be used for divination.  If it’s been a bit of a tuile (flood) of Halloween lore lately, what can I say but “Nuair a thig cith tig bailc” (It never rains but it pours, lit. when a shower comes, a downpour comes).

 

BairĂ­n Breac, lit. “speckled loaf,” is made with raisins and/or currants, hence the name.  It can be served at any time of the year.  The “barm” part of the English name is believed to be a contraction of “bairĂ­n” (loaf).  Some interpret it as related to “barm” (yeast, and source of the English adjective “barmy”), but it has always seemed to me less likely that you’d call this food “speckled yeast,” with a hybrid half-English, half-Irish name, and more likely that “speckled” would describe the loaf itself.  Unless the “breac” part (speckled) stands for the loaf itself mar shampla de shineicdicĂ© (as an example of synecdoche). 

 

At this time of year, various items can be baked into the loaf, predicting the future for whoever gets them in their slice.  These could include a pingin, or these days a ceint (i.e. saibhreas [SEV-rus], wealth), fåinne for a bainis (ring, wedding), or a méaracån (thimble), indicating that a man would sew on his own buttons for at least another year.  The symbolism of a thimble for a woman seems less clear.  Status quo, is dócha.

 

CĂĄl ceannann, lit. white-faced or white-topped kale or cabbage.  It seems this was originally cabbage served with butter, as opposed to without butter.  A family might have been saving their home-made butter to sell at market days, to get actual cash income.  These days, though, potatoes are an equally important ingredient, with chopped up cabbage added.  Or oinniĂșin or sĂ­obhais ([SHEE-uv-ish] chives), srl.  This could also be served at any time of year but for Halloween, coins or other charms would be added.  Maybe today children would expect a euro, not a ceint!

 

By the way, if you try these, I recommend wrapping the charms in scragall alĂșmanaim (aluminum or “tin” foil) before cooking.  And maybe a metal thimble, not a plastic one, if you’re baking.  I don’t know how much heat it would take to melt a plastic thimble, but I don’t intend to find out.   

 

At any rate, it seems that the Celts didn’t need the iconographic liathróid chriostail.  .

 

Nótaí: fáistineacht [FAWSH-tin-yukht], divination; thig [hig]; liathróid [LEE-uh-hrohdj, silent “t”] ball; chriostail [HRISS-til, silent “c”] of crystal 

 

When the letter “h” is added to “sineicdicĂ©â€ for lenition, resulting in “shineicdicĂ©,” remember the initial “s” becomes silent and the first syllable (shin-) is pronounced “hin.”

 

Tuilleadh Téarmaí Oíche Shamhna

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An bhfuil culaith Oíche Shamhna agat?  Do you have a Halloween costume?

Må tå, cén sórt culaithe atå ann? 

An mbeidh tĂș i do vaimpĂ­r?  [un may too ih duh VAM-peer?]     

Beidh [bay] / NĂ­ bheidh [nee vay]

 

For these questions, note that you’re literally saying something like, “Will you be in your vampire?” and the answer is either “will be” or “won’t be.”  It doesn’t mean inside your own “vampireness,” but is simply a way to link a noun or pronoun, in this case “tĂș” with another noun, in this case, “vaimpĂ­r.”  It’s very important to include the phrase “i do” (in your” for sentences like this; normally one can’t use the verb “tá” to link two nouns. 

 

The full answer to a question like this is:

Beidh mĂ© i mo vaimpĂ­r (I will be a vampire, using “i mo” for “in my”)

or for the negative, Ní bheidh mé i mo vaimpír. 

 

But one might simply answer “beidh” or answer “NĂ­ bheidh” and then say what you’ll actually be, like “NĂ­ bheidh, beidh mĂ© i mo chonriocht.”  (No, I’ll be a werewolf).  

 

Hmm, that would actually be a tricky (ĂșĂșps!) costume to create, wouldn’t it?  How would people know you were a werewolf and not just a regular wolf?  Maybe a costume that was “leathchonriocht” agus “leathdhuine” (half werewolf, half human), a sort of “frĂĄma reoite beo” (living freeze frame) in the act of “trasdul” (transition). 

Seo cĂșpla ceann eile:

An mbeidh tĂș i do thaibhse? [
 ih duh HAIV-shuh, silent “t” and “b”]     

An mbeidh tĂș i do dhiabhal? [
 ih duh YEE-uh-wul?

An mbeidh tĂș i do chat dubh? [
 ih duh khaht duv?]

An mbeidh tĂș i do bhuachaill bĂł? [
 ih duh WOO-ukh-il boh?]

An mbeidh tĂș i do phĂ­orĂĄid? [
 ih duh FEE-ur-awdj?[

 

And of course, now that Halloween costumes for pets have become popular, we could have a series of questions like:

An mbeidh do mhadra ina chat dubh?  Will your dog [male] be a black cat?

An mbeidh do mhadra ina cat dubh?  Will your dog [female] be a black cat? 

 

Or, thinking of an adorable costume I saw on a “smutmhadra” (pug dog) the other day:

Tå an smutmhadra ina phuimcín  (if the dog is male) or Tå an smutmhadra ina puimcín (if the dog is female). 

 

Please do note the pronunciation of the first part of the compound word for “pug.”   The “u” is like the sound in English “put” or “book,” not as in “putt” (in golf) or “buck.”  And please keep in mind that the compound “smutmhadra” literally means “stump-dog” or “snout-dog”  The first element may look like English, but that is, in this case, sheer coincidence.

 

If you’re trying to put a culaith on your cat, I’d say, “Ádh mór!”  I’ve also seen costumes for pearóidí, but have never actually seen a parrot wearing one.  Tusa?    

 

And  “mar fhocal scoir” for this topic, all of these questions imply a temporary state.  That is, you’re not permanently a devil, even though you’re wearing a devil costume.  

 

If you’re truly and inherently a vampire or if your pug is truly and inherently a pumpkin, you’d use the linking verb and say “Is vaimpĂ­r mĂ©â€ (I’m a vampire) or “Is puimcĂ­n Ă© an smutmhadra sin” (That pug is a pumpkin).  The first of those sentences might be reasonably useful, depending on what kind of company you hang out with.  The second one is a stretch, at least as I understand eiseadh (existence).  Perhaps we should say, “Is smutmadra Ă© an puimcĂ­n sin” [That pumpkin is (actually) a pug].  To me, that would suggest that some wizard had transformed a pug into a pumpkin and you were pointing this out, since most people would think the pumpkin was simply a pumpkin.  But if you wanted to imply that the pumpkin could be transformed back into a pug, you could say, “TĂĄ an puimcĂ­n sin ina smutmhadra” (That pumpkin is a pug). 

 

Of course, if your sense of identity with your costumed persona is really strong, you could use the “is” verb as well.  But if you wanted to say “I’m a vampire tonight, but if you want to know my job, I’m a programmer,” you’d say: 

TĂĄ mĂ© i mo vaimpĂ­r anocht ach mĂĄ tĂĄ tĂș ag iarraidh a fhĂĄil amach cĂ©n post atĂĄ agam, is clĂĄraitheoir mĂ©. 

 

Whatever you choose to say with the Irish verb “is,” remember that it is pronounced like “hiss” or “miss,” not like its English look-alike, “is,” which is pronounced “izz.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ïżœ

 

LĂĄ NĂĄisiĂșnta Arbhar CandaĂ­ sna S.A.M. = an 30Ăș Deireadh FĂłmhair (October 30th)

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Although there don’t seem to be any taifid Ăł ChomhdhĂĄil na StĂĄt Aontaithe or forĂłgraĂ­ uachtarĂĄin for this holiday, it has some popularity in what I’ll call the penchant for Laethe NĂĄisiĂșnta Mic UĂ­ RudaĂ­ (National Days of Thingamajigs), sna StĂĄit Aontaithe MheiriceĂĄ, ar a laghad.  And these days, we have more and more ways to mark these days, thanks to an tIdirlĂ­on (le cĂĄrtaĂ­ agus fĂ©ilirĂ­ leictreonacha). 

 

Cad is “arbhar candaí” ann?  What is “candy corn”?

 

Fad m’eolais nĂ­ dhĂ­oltar in Éirinn Ă© ach dĂ­oltar i MeiriceĂĄ agus i gCeanada Ă© (aon ĂĄit eile, a lĂ©itheoirĂ­?).  SiĂșcra, mil, agus sĂ­orĂłp arbhair na comhĂĄbhair is mĂł atĂĄ ann.  Bagairt faoi thrĂ­ Ă©!  TĂĄ cruth eithne (kernel) arbhar Indiach air. 

 

TĂĄ gach pĂ­osa trĂ­dhathach (tri-colored).  San FhĂłmhar bĂ­onn na dathanna ina siombail ar arbhar Indiach: buĂ­, bĂĄn agus flannbhuĂ­ (nĂł “orĂĄiste” mar a deir a lĂĄn daoine inniu) ach nĂ­l aon eithne arbhar Indiach chomh simĂ©adrach [SHIM-ayd-rukh, symmetrical] sa leagan amach (layout)!  DĂ©antar thart fĂĄ 35 milliĂșn punt d’arbhar candaĂ­ i MeiriceĂĄ sa bhliain.  DĂ­oltar an chuid is mĂł de idir aimsir Shamhna agus LĂĄ an Altaithe (Thanksgiving). 

 

Ag am LĂĄ an Altaithe i MeiriceĂĄ dĂ­oltar “arbhar candaí” le scĂ©im dathanna (color scheme) eile: flannbhuĂ­ (orĂĄiste), bĂĄn, agus donn (mar thurcaĂ­ rĂłsta?).  Deirtear go bhfuil scĂ©imeanna dathanna eile ann freisin don Nollaig (Arbhar RĂ©infhia), do LĂĄ VailintĂ­n (Arbhar CĂșipid), agus don ChĂĄisc (Arbhar CoinĂ­n) ach nĂ­ fhaca mĂ© riamh iad.  

 

Maidir leis an bhfocal “candaí” — nĂ­ ĂșsĂĄidtear mĂłrĂĄn i nGaeilge Ă© ach tĂĄ sĂ© sa tĂ©armaĂ­ seo: flas candaĂ­, candy floss (aka “cotton candy”) agus cĂ© gur lĂș i bhfad a blastacht, an leithphĂ©ist strĂ­oca candaĂ­ (candy-striped worm, Prostheceraeus vittatus)

 

An gnĂĄthfhocal Gaeilge ar an ainmfhocal “sweet” — milseĂĄn (rud atĂĄ “milis,” sweet).  TĂĄ a lĂĄn cineĂĄlacha ann, searbhmhilseĂĄn (SHAR-uv-VIL-shawn] acid drop sweet) agus milseĂĄn miontais (peppermint humbug) ina measc. 

 

Ag caint ar “Laethe NĂĄisiĂșnta Mic UĂ­ RudaĂ­,” seo cuid de na hĂĄbhair eile a bhfuil a lĂĄ speisialta acu: foclĂłirĂ­, galf, seaclĂĄid, agus frappes (focal BostĂșnach ar chreathĂĄin bhainne).  Caveat lector, is dĂłcha go dtabharfaidh mĂ© cuairt ar ĂĄbhair mar seo Ăł am go ham i rith na bliana.  NĂ­os neamhiomrĂĄitĂ­, nĂ­os fearr!

 

NĂłtaĂ­: taifead, record (n); forĂłgraĂ­, proclamation; StĂĄit Aontaithe MheiriceĂĄ, the U.S.A.; na StĂĄt Aontaithe, of the U.S. (note the change from “StĂĄit” to “StĂĄt” for the possessive form); comhĂĄbhar, ingredient; dĂ­oltar, is sold; bagairt, threat; faoi thrĂ­ [fwee hree], triple; eithne [EH-nyuh, silent “t” but very breathy in the middle] kernel; lĂș, less; strĂ­oca, striped; gnĂĄth-, ordinary; ĂĄbhar, topic; creathĂĄn bainne, milkshake; neamhiomrĂĄiteach [NYOW-UM-rawtch-ukh] little-known; nĂ­os neamhiomrĂĄitĂ­, more little-known (!)

 

Arbhar (can be pronounced “AR-uh-vur” or “AR-oor”), corn, grain (in general).  The phrase “arbhar Indiach” can be used to specify “maize,” but “Indiach” is often dropped in compound words or phrases, like “arbhar ar an dias” (corn on the cob).

 

Bob nó Bia – Trick or Treat

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Sorry, all you Bobs in the Bob Club (www.thebobclub.com).  This blog’s not specifically about you, though I hope you’ll find it of interest if you’ve made it this far through cibearspás [KIB-yar-SPAWSS],. 

 

“Bob” is an Irish word that means “a trick” or “a target (in games).  Pronunciation is straightforward enough, but please remember it’s not quite the “ah” sound we find in the English name “Bob,” but rather the Irish short “o” sound as in “pota.”     

 

I should also mention that there’s another word in Irish that’s probably more widely used for “trick” in general, that is “cleas,” which also means “a feat” or “an act.”  And for talking about targets in general, we have “sprioc” and “targaid” [TAR-uh-gidj], the latter largely used in sports terminology. 

 

“Bia” is a word many of you will already recognize, “food.” 

 

No doubt a key factor in the phrase “bob nĂł bia” is “uaim” (alliteration), which also contributes to the tarraingteacht (catchiness) of the English “trick or treat.”  In fact, as I look for this frĂĄsa in some other languages, I find a lot of emphasis on uaim.  Numerous phrases exist, although a lot of discussions indicate that the phrase is not traditional, as such.  Some contributors say something to the effect of, “Well, we don’t really say that but you could say 
”  In some cases, the English phrase seems to be used in other languages.  Nonetheless, many of the samplaĂ­ are a great fĂłram uama (forum of alliteration):

 

Possible phrases for Trick or Treat in other languages, seachas an Ghaeilge:

 

SpĂĄinnis: Truco o trato

Fraincis: bonbons ou bĂąton

IodĂĄilis: dolcetto o scherzetto

Portaingéilis: doces ou travessuras

RĂłmĂĄinis: ne daĆŁi ori nu ne daĆŁi

Seicis: koleda pƙi Halloweenu

 

Which brings me to another point.  I’ve been wondering about the Irish for “Trick or treat” for about 20 years, but never encountered the phrase in a traditional context, despite having read volumes about the Irish origin of Halloween.  So, while, this phrase is certainly part of the Irish lexicon now, it remains unclear just how traidisiĂșnta this particular phrase is.  A quick turas ar an IdirlĂ­on yielded only 13 searchable examples for “bob nĂł bia,” which showed up presumably because of how they were tagged.  The vast comparison with the number of hits for “trick or treat” is, well, more or less, a foregone conclusion, but I just checked and got about deich milliĂșn (10,000,000).

 

There seems to be some reverse marketing going on, regarding Halloween, in that it is an Old World custom brought to the United States.  Now it is being exported back to Europe, mostly in a more commercial sense.  I’ve talked to European adults from various countries who say that no, it was not part of their childhood.  But now it has caught on, at least in the commercial sense (pop culture costumes, special candy manufacturing, etc.).  Of course, many of these countries have their own festivities held at other times of the year, replete with cultacha traidisiĂșnta nĂł cruthaitheacha (creative), nathanna cainte (sayings), agus bianĂłsanna.

 

And, by the way, Bob(s), if you’ve read this far, I probably will devote a future blog to your namesake, since there are all kinds of interesting Irish words that either equate to one of the dozen or so meanings “bob” has in English, or are borrowed from English and are, therefore, also spelled “bob.”  Now if all the Bobs in the Bob Club (Cumann na mBob?) start reading this blog, that will be quite an impressive number!  An bhfuil sibh ann, a lucht na mBob? 

 

Nóta: na mBob [num ob, the first “b” becomes silent] of the Bobs

 

Oíche Shamhna – The Eve of Samhain (October 31)

Posted by RĂłislĂ­n

Uair amhĂĄin agus mĂ© ag spaisteoireacht i bpasĂĄiste na ngnĂ­omhfhigiĂșirĂ­ i siopa ilrannach, cĂ© a chonaic mĂ© ag stĂĄnadh anuas orm trĂ­ phacĂĄistĂ­ocht thrĂ©dhearcach phlaisteach ach carachtar Ăł Ghostbusters darbh ainm “Sam Hain”!  Bhain sin preab asam!  That startled me!

 

So, what was that all about? 

 

As late October settles in and we prepare for OĂ­che Shamhna, we’ll no doubt hear many references to the Irish origins of Halloween.  First let’s clarify the terminology itself, and then, in the next upcoming blogs, we’ll look at some of the sprideanna that might be abroad ar an aonĂș lĂĄ is trĂ­ocha de mhĂ­ Dheireadh FĂłmhair (an 31Ăș Deireadh FĂłmhair) [err un AYN-oo law iss TREE-uh-khuh djeh vee YERzh-uh FOH-irzh]. 

 

Samhain [SOW-in], an chĂ©ad lĂĄ de mhĂ­ na Samhna, November 1st (the Celtic New Year).  The first syllable is pronounced “sow,” as in the pig (rhyming with “cow” or “now” or “Tau,”not as in “mow” (the lawn) or “sowing” seeds.  At least that’s “cow” and “now” as they are pronounced in most American English; I can’t vouch for some of your Scottish or even Canadian vowels, or maybe other areas as well, any place where a “coo” might be “oot” in a field.  The main thing is that the –mh- in the middle is basically just a “w” sound. 

 

An tSamhain [un TOW-in]: sometimes this word will take the definite article (“the”), as Irish does for Christmas (An Nollaig) or Easter (An Cháisc).  Adding “the” also means the “S” of Samhain will be prefixed by a lower-case “t” and the new pronunciation is “un TOW-in.”  Again, that’s not like “tow-trucks,” but like “Tau” crosses, “towel,” or “tower.”  Most importantly, the “S” has become silent. 

 

na Samhna [nuh SOW-nuh]: this means “of Samhain” and shows up in phrases like “Mí na Samhna” (November, lit. “the month of Samhain”).  Note that as “Samhain” changes to its possessive form, it loses the original middle syllable and adds a vowel at the end.  Remember that “nuh” is used here to indicate the unstressed vowel sounds, as in “um, uh, I dunno,” not as in German “Huhn” or Turkish “uhlan.” 

 

Shamhna [HOW-nuh]: this is also the possessive form, as used in the phrase “Oíche Shamhna” [EE-hyeh HOW-nuh] (eve of Samhain).  Since “oíche” (eve, night) is feminine, the word following is lenited (“s” changes to “sh”) and only the “h” is pronounced. 

 

As for “oíche,” many of you already know this word, from phrases like “Oíche mhaith!” [EE-hyeh wah] (“Good night!”).  As with using “uh” for the vowel sound in “fun,” I use “eh” to indicate the vowel sound of “pet” or “met.”  Why add the final “h” at all, you might wonder?  If I don’t include it, I’ve found that people assume that the unadorned “e” is the long vowel sound in “me” or “be.”  The “y” in “hyeh” indicates breathiness, like the “h” sound in English “Hugh,” “hue,” or “hew” (not as in “who,” or the “hoo” of Sutton Hoo or the “hoo” that Horton heard).  Key point, then, the “c” of “oíche” is silent.

 

Now (the noo!) that the pronunciation of Samhain is safely under our belts, we can look at our original first paragraph, and hopefully you’ll find the situation as humorous as I did. 

 

Uair amhĂĄin, once

agus mé ag spaisteoireacht, while I was wandering

i bpasĂĄiste na ngnĂ­omhfhigiĂșirĂ­ [nung NEEV-IG-yoorzh-ee], in the action figures aisle

i siopa ilrannach, in a department store,

cé a chonaic mé ag stånadh anuas orm, who did I see peering down at me

trí phacåistíocht thrédhearcach phlaisteach, through clear plastic packaging,

ach carachtar Ăł Ghostbusters, but a Ghostbusters character

darbh ainm “Sam Hain”!, named “Sam Hain”

Bhain sin preab asam!, lit. that struck a start out of me!

 

There was his name, on the package, and probably trademarked, as if “Sam” was his “ainm” and “Hain” was his “sloinne.”  A great onomastic pun, actually, as long as people don’t use that pronunciation for the holiday itself – which, ar an drochuair, I have heard often enough.  It sounds about as authentic as if pronounced the “f-i-e” of “fiesta” to rhyme with “apple pie” or the “fie” of “fie upon you!”

 

Anyway, there are lots of other points to discuss regarding “Samhain,” so keep your eyes “scafa,” skinned, or as said in the U.S., peeled (!) for some upcoming blaganna sĂ©asĂșracha (seasonal).  “Peeled eyes” – now there’s an Ă­omhĂĄ ghĂșlach (ghoulish image) for you!

Â

 

Cineálacha Gloiní agus Soithí Eile don Ól

Posted by RĂłislĂ­n

An bhfuil tart ort fós?   Still thirsty?  The recent blaganna have given you a wide choice of deochanna, but, how to drink them?  Here are some of the basics, and a few more specialized:

 

cupĂĄn, cup

 

cupán tae could be a cup of tea or a tea-cup (as opposed to a muga).  But “taechupán” is more specific if you’re discussing the drinkware as such.   

 

muga, mug, and somewhat less practical, ciota, a wooden mug

 

tĂłibĂ­chrĂșsca, literally, is a Toby jug, though most I’ve seen would be more of a mug

 

I find nothing in Irish to equate to a “stein;” best to leave that in German, I guess.

 

A little more festive would be a cuach, a two-handled drinking cup, mostly known in English through its Scots name, quaich.  This item is quite well known in Scotland and silver ones are popular gift items. 

 

The term “cuach” is actually sort of ambiguous, since it used to and could still mean a “goblet,” although “gloine choise” (lit. foot- or leg-glass) is typically used for “goblet” these days.  Either way, it’s not the same as two other words spelled “cuach” in Irish, namely, “cuach” (cuckoo) and “cuach” (the verb “bundle” or “curl”). 

 

As for earraĂ­ gloine (glassware), here are some, ranging from the general to the specific:

 

gloine, a glass, also, glass as a substance, but this isn’t generally the term for glasses for reading, etc., which typically would be “spĂ©aclaĂ­.”

 

fíonghloine, a wine glass, as opposed to “gloine fíona,” a glass of wine

 

gloine mhanglaim we’ve discussed previously, but I find no terms in Irish to correspond to the specific glasses for highballs, Collins cocktails, or old-fashioneds.  No great loss, I guess, since it seems to me that there is far less consumption of mixed drinks in Ireland than elsewhere.  And why bother, one might ask, when uisce beatha Éireannach is as blasta as can be, whether mixed with water, or drunk “neat,” for which Irish has at least  three terms: as a neart (lit. out of its strength), ar a bhlas (lit. on its taste), and ar a aghaidh (lit. on its face).  None of these terms are remotely connected to the normal Irish words for neat (tidy), which include nĂ©ata, slachtmhar, cĂłrach, and comair. 

 

For the following types of glasses, I find no documented Irish equivalent: brandy snifter, champagne flute or coupe (saucer).  Smaointe, anyone? 

 

Nótaí: tart, thirst, is “on you” in Irish; manglam, cocktail; mhanglaim, of cocktail; aghaidh, this is just one long vowel sound, all the consonants are silent, sounds more or less like “eye” or “I” in English. 

 

Deochanna Go Leor

Posted by RĂłislĂ­n

Now that “do ghoile” has presumably been “gĂ©araithe,” here’s a list of some of the actual deochanna alcĂłlacha.  At some point sa todhchaĂ­, we can also talk about the effects of these beverages, namely various states of tipsiness.  And perhaps other related side effects (eilifintĂ­ bĂĄndearga?).

 

Uisce beatha, literally means “water of life.” “Fuisce” is a shortened form, based on the “uisce” part alone, which now serves for “whiskey” also. 

 

Scailtín is normally made from heated whiskey (with butter, sugar, and hot milk or water), but the word can also be used for mulled wine: scailtín fíona. 

 

CineĂĄlacha leanna: leann, leann piorra, leann Ășll or ceirtlis (presumed to be “hard” in the European context), and leann fraoigh (a legendary concoction, but Williams Brothers Brewing Co. started brewing it in 1988)

 

CineĂĄlacha beorach: beoir, beoir bhairille, beoir neamh-mheisciĂșil, scothbheoir

 

Téarmaí Ilchineålacha:

 

Recognize these? aipsint, coinneac, licéar, licéar uachtair, meå, rum, seaimpéin, sneap [say: shnap], vodca (freagraí thíos)

 

Leann pailme, toddy, really a type of wine, not an ale (leann) as I understand it; not the same “toddy” as in “hot toddy.”   

 

Fíon mormónta, vermouth, with “mormónta” being the Irish for “wormwood.”  This reflects the history of the actual word “vermouth,” derived from the German for the herb itself, “wermuth.” 

 

Manglam, cocktail, or any jumble or hodge-podge.  The manglam would be served in a gloine mhanglaim, showing us that manglam, functioning as an attributive noun would take both lenition (initial “m” becomes “mh” and slenderization, the “-m” ending becomes “-im.”) 

 

BiotĂĄille GhinĂ©ive agus athbhrĂ­och, gin and tonic, (lĂĄn do bhĂ©il d’fhocail, nach ea? – quite a mouthful of words!), lit. Geneva spirits and tonic.  A slightly shorter alternative for “gin” is “gin-bhiotĂĄille,” but even that suggests a reluctance to completely substitute the place name element (gin) for the type of drink being modified.  “Sloe-gin” can be specified as “biotĂĄille airnĂ­,” with “airne,” being the same plant that gives us the place name “Cill Airne” (Killarney, “church of the sloes”). 

 

SĂșlap miontais, mint julep, perhaps not a particularly favored beverage in Ireland, but this might have been a useful term for an leipreachĂĄn Og, who ended up in Missitucky in the musical which could be gaelicized as Tuar Ceatha FhinĂ­n.  Not that Harburg and Lane had much Gaelic in mind, but at least they did lip service to the language, with Og and the fictitious town of “Glocca Morra,” (presumably Clocha MĂłra).  If, after all the differences were resolved, Og decided to schmooze a bit with Senator Billboard Rawkins [sic!], who “ruled” Missitucky till he had his come-uppance, no doubt sĂșlap miontais would have been the beverage of choice.  And no, there was no sĂ­neadh fada (long mark) in the leprechaun’s name, even though it is meant to be “óg,” the Irish for young. 

 

Finally, I might note that “leigheas na póite a hól arís,” the cure for a hangover is to drink again.  Perhaps not the healthiest advice, but time-honored.     

 

NĂłtaĂ­: goile, appetite, stomach (although the more everyday word for “stomach” is “bolg” [say: BOL-ug, with two syllables]; gĂ©araithe, whetted, sharpened; leann piorra, perry; fraoch, heather; fraoigh [free] of heather; beorach, of beer; bairille, barrel (used for “draught beer”); scoth- [skuh, note: silent “t”] premium; ilchineĂĄlach, various; tuar ceatha [too-ur KYAH-huh] rainbow

 

FreagraĂ­: absinthe, cognac, liqueur or just liquor, cream liqueur, mead, rum, champagne, schnapps, vodka

 

What’s The Opposite of “Deochanna MeisciĂșla”?

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Thinking about the term “soft drinks,” I got to pondering over how and when we use phrase “hard drinks” in English.  I just compared the number of Google citations for “hard drinks” vs. “soft drinks” in English, ca. 46,800 (hard) to ca. 5,780,000 (soft) – an interesting contrast.  “Hard liquor” gives about 581,000 hits but “soft liquor,” an actual but obscur-ish term, gives only about 330.  How about a comparison of the Irish terms?

 

Actually, I don’t really see any evidence for Irish using a term “hard (intoxicating) drinks” that actually uses any of the main adjectives for “hard.”  So, let’s see what the basic terms for “hard” would be, and if they’re ever used regarding beverages:

 

crua, used in both the physical sense, as in “uisce crua,” “cruabhruite” (if speaking of an ubh, probably not regarding detectives!), and “crua le mothĂș,” and in the abstract sense, as in obair chrua or geimhreadh crua.

 

deacair, mostly in the abstract sense, similar to “difficult,” as in “Tá sin deacair a thuiscint” (That’s hard to understand). 

 

doiligh, similar to “deacair,” but mostly found, in my experience, more in Donegal or Northern Irish), as in “Tá sin doiligh a thuigbheáil” (That’s hard to understand).

 

Just to double-check, I also looked for any references online to “drinks” with “crua” and found only one hit, in an unusual site, “epaloids,” that appears to be half in a Pilipino language and half in Irish, with a lot of the Irish strictly following English word order (“i an” instead of “sa,” etc.).  The Irish I found there isn’t such to make me think that “crua” has really entered the lexicon for describing beverages in Irish.  

 

So, we’ll be sticking to the phrase, “deochanna meisciĂșla” here and end up comparing that to “deochanna neamh-mheisciĂșla,”  “deochanna boga,” and “deochanna glasa.”

 

A rough search on the IdirlĂ­on yields about 1090 hits for the phrase “deochanna meisciĂșla,” many of which have to do with “An tAcht Deochanna MeisciĂșla” (The Intoxicating Liquor Act), or the related “bille.”  Removing those, from the search leaves me with about 39 actual hits concerning “deochanna meisciĂșla” in a more general sense.   

 

A search for “deochanna boga” gives me about 79 results.  “Deochanna glasa” seems to be fading out of use as a term, since its hits are remarkably fewer, five, in fact.  And two of those are from previous blaganna in this series!  The other three are from government statistical orders from the 1970s and 1980s.  “Deochanna neamh-mheisciĂșla,” admittedly a bit of a mouthful compared to either “boga” or “glasa,” gives me 13 hits and is a more formal term.   

 

Why were drinks “glas” anyway?  The adjective “glas” normally means “green” (leaves, plants, etc.) or “gray” (animals), so this use is presumably from its extended meanings, like “unseasoned,” “immature,” “raw,” or “sickly-hued.” 

 

How about in the singular?  The trend is similar although the pool of results is far smaller: deoch bhog (19 hits, after eliminating duplicates, etc.) and deoch ghlas (5 hits).  “Deoch neamh-mheisciĂșil” gave a grand total of faic, nĂĄid, nialas, or as we like to add to such enumerations in English, zip, zilch, or jack (leaving out the less savory, i.e. sweet, variations of such phrases)!

 

So the upshot of it all seems to be that English tends to prefer the phrases “hard liquor” and “soft drinks” although both “soft liquor” and “hard drinks” do exist, at least as terms.  Irish seems to see the alcoholic drinks as “intoxicating” (meisciĂșil) rather than “hard” as such.  Nonetheless, “bog” (soft) (as an opposite to the term “crua” even though “crua” isn’t used) has entered the language to describe non-alcoholic drinks, and seems to gradually be displacing the more traditional concept of “glas.”

 

As for the “shot” itself, as opposed to the “upshot,” that’s a “glincín,” but more on the measurements and containers for all these deochanna in another blog. 

 

Some day, I’ll extend this research to cover biotáillí (“spirituous” liquor) and the term for alcohol itself, but this is go leor for now.  And yes, I know that Googling terms like this certainly doesn’t cover the whole spectrum of word usage today or in the past, but it is one sort of practical and insightful linguistic bar(GROAN!)ometer, at any rate! 

 

NĂłtaĂ­: bruite, boiled or cooked; le mothĂș, to touch; geimhreadh [GYEV-ruh] winter; neamh-, non-; acht, act (in government)