Irish Blog

As you may have guessed, this blag will introduce some of the Irish terms for “fool” and will resume our long-awaited (right) series of irregular verbs in direct and indirect relative clauses.  This is in honor of Lá na nAmadán, the day of fools, April 1.  Amadán is the most basic Irish word for “a fool.”  Look for a few more below. 

Let’s first refresh the pattern we had set up for this, using a verb we had recently (déan – make, do).  An cuimhin libh na habairtí seo (all based on “She makes a muzzle for the calf”)?

Aimsir láithreach: Déanann sí soc don lao.  An ndéanann sí soc don lao?  Sin í an bhean a dhéanann soc don lao.  Sin í an bhean a ndéanann a hiníon soc don lao.

Aimsir chaite: Rinne sí soc don lao.  An ndearna sí soc don lao?  Sin í an bhean a rinne soc don lao.  Sin í an bhean a ndearna a hiníon soc don lao.

Aimsir fháistineach: Déanfaidh sí soc don lao.  An ndéanfaidh sí soc don lao?  Sin í an bhean a dhéanfaidh soc don lao.  Sin í an bhean a ndéanfaidh a hiníon soc don lao.

Remember how important séimhiú (lenition aka aspiration) and urú (eclipsis) are in Irish?  Lenition and eclipsis are what this system is all about.  They’re why we’re spending at least aon bhlag déag (11 blogs) on it.  Irish doesn’t use a relative pronoun “who” in the way English does, to say things like “This is woman who bakes every day.” You might try to work out the Irish for that, by the way; the answer is thíos (below).  It simply uses the “relative particle” (an páirteagal coibhneasta) which is spelled “a” and pronounced “uh.”  Oh, yes, and followed by lenition (b->bh, etc.).  

Likewise, to say “whose” in the relative sense (as in “This is the woman whose son bakes every day,” Irish below), we also use “a” but it is followed by eclipsis (b->mb, etc.).  Please do note that this is not the interrogative “whose” (as in “Whose book is this?”).  That could be covered in another blog series.  Interested – please let me know by writing in the comments section.  Or, if anyone can recall the “lumpy pillow” anecdote famously used to illustrate this feature of Irish, I’ll plunge right into it (maybe after a short change of tack to deal with Easter, Passover, and related terms).

Now, having said all that, here are our examples, using the verb “say” (abair, which changes “root” to “deir-,” dú-,” or “déar-“ for our samples below, so this one’s highly irregular).  This is the seventh out of the 11 briathra neamhrialta of Irish we’ll cover in this series and, to be topical, for Lá na nAmadán, we’ll use fools as the subject:

Aimsir láithreach: 

Simple sentence and question: Deir an t-amadán rudaí amaideacha.  (The fool says foolish things).  An ndeir t-amadán rudaí amaideacha?

Sentences with relative clauses:

Direct relative: Seo é an t-amadán a deir rudaí amaideacha.  This is the fool who says foolish things. 

Notice anything amiss there?  Yep, there’s always an exception to break the rule.  The verb “deir” (says) doesn’t get lenited after our particle “a” (or after other particles, for that matter, cf. “ní deir sé” – he doesn’t say, etc.  The same will apply in the past and future.)

But we do eclipse for the indirect relative:

Seo é an t-amadán a ndeir a bhean rudaí amaideacha.  This is the fool whose wife says foolish things. 

Aimsir chaite (and now we’ll switch to “óinseach,” for a female fool.  Maybe she’s bean an amadáin, the fool’s wife)

Dúirt an óinseach rudaí amaideacha.  An ndúirt an óinseach rudaí amaideacha?

Sentences with relative clauses:

Seo í an bhean a dúirt rudaí amaideacha.  Seo í an bhean a ndúirt a cara rudaí amaideacha.

Aimsir fháistineach (and let’s have the friend be a “gamal,” yet another word for fool)

Déarfaidh an gamal rudaí amaideacha.  An ndéarfaidh an gamal rudaí amaideacha?

Sentences with relative clauses:

Seo é an gamal a déarfaidh rudaí amaideacha.  Seo é an gamal a ndéarfaidh a mhac rudaí amaideacha. 

Yes, Irish does distinguish between male and female fools.  I’ve heard “amadán” used much like “guys” in English gender-wise (originally masculine, but now used for men and women).  “Óinseach” is specifically female.  At least I’ve never heard it applied to a man!  Which is probably just as well!    

Nóta (though you might have figured it out already): Direct relative: Seo í an bhean a bhácálann gach lá.  Indirect relative: Seo í an bhean a mbácálann a mhac gach lá.  Both sentences are based on the verb “bácálann” (bakes).         

So, we’ve covered two out of the alleged “daichead lí den dath “green” – “glas” and “uaine.”  Well, three, if we count “glasuaine” (vivid green).  Oh, and yes, we’re still on “sos” (break) from the irregular verbs.  I haven’t forgotten them and am actually “ar bís” to get back to them, since I just love all those root changes, combined with séimhiú and urú.  But Seachtain Fhéile Pádraig gives us a well-deserved chance ár scíth a ligean. 

But in a way, we’re just going “ó theach an diabhail go teach an deamhain” (loosely equivalent to “out of the frying pan, into the fire,” see below for the literal).  Talking about color in Irish, or comparatively from language to language (and occasionally from wife to husband on those infamous curtain-buying trips) is very complex.  Just for a wee greadóigín, keep in mind that in Irish:

a)    there are two main words for red (plus a slew more when you really get into it), namely “dearg” and “rua,”

b)    “dubh” means “black” or “black-haired” but a black person (African, African-American, etc.) is “gorm” (blue), and,

c)    many things are “buí” (yellow) which English speakers would typically describe as “orange,” such as the “péacán buí” (orange-lily), and that’s a topic for a month’s worth of blaganna.

And like I said, that’s just for starters.

Anyway, back to those “ocht lí is tríocha”.  Here are a few more “green” phrases in Irish.  And also a few red flags (words that look like they contain “glas” or “uaine” but have nothing to do with green).

Glas: geamhar glas (green corn, or braird, which you know all about now, right); fód glas, the greensward; and “Is glas iad na cnoic i bhfad uainn (far-off hills are green).

And for shades of green:

ar ghlaise na sáiste, sage-green (ex. “Tá an blús ar ghlaise na sáiste” (v. lit. “the blouse is “on” the greenness of sage”).

ar ghlaise na holóige, olive-green (ex. “Tá an blús ar ghlaise na holóige,” v. lit. “the blouse is “on” the greenness of the olive”). 

Don’t be misled by the completely unrelated word “glas” (a lock), as in “Tá an doras faoi ghlas” (the door is locked). 

As for “uaine,” here are a few more examples:

Bhí dath na huaine ar an splangadán (the sickly creature was green in the face, lit. “the color of green was on the sickly creature,” the “face” part being implied)

In very specific hues, like Brunswick and zinc chrome: uaine Brunswick and uaine cróim since.

And a few caveats.  Intriguing though the idea might be, “uaineoil” has nothing to do with greenness.  It’s from “uan” (lamb) and “feoil” (meat), with the underlying form “uainfheoil,” which also shows vowel harmony.  But then, if you covered it with enough “anlann miontais,” maybe it would pass muster (should you ever want it to!).  Sorry, Sam!  Úúps, that was “ham” anyway, not “lamb.”  And come to think of it, does “green eggs and ham” mean both the ham and the eggs were green, or just the eggs?     

Also, be careful with “uaineadh” (interval between showers) and “uaineach” (intermittent), both from “uain” (an interval of time). 

Nóta: Ó theach an diabhail:  There’s always a teachable moment.  We’re really talking about shades of green, of course, but since the seanfhocal lept to mind, we can talk about an tuiseal ginideach for “just a wee bomaite,” (that one’s for you, a Shóisir!).  “Diabhal” is “devil” but it becomes “diabhail” to show possession, errmm, that is ownership, not possession à la “An tEacsaircistí” (The Exorcist).  Although perhaps, if I’m lucky, my “rámhaillíní cainte” might set your head ar casadh.  In the sense of having “do radharc bainte as do shúile” (being dazzled), that is, ní de réir bunbhrí an fhocail. 

Anyway, ar ais ar an ráille, “deamhan” is demon, becoming “deamhain” for “an tuiseal ginideach.”     

“Teach” (house), here, has séimhiú since it follows the preposition “ó” (out of).  So we have, “out of the devil’s house into the demon’s house.”  No real mention of friochtáin or tinte, but the idea is the same.  Five shades down, thirty-five to go!