Posts tagged with "English"

Cleamairí ‘gus Geamairí ‘gus Geocaigh, a Thiarcais!

Posted by róislín No Comments
Jan 1 2012

Paráid na nGeocach

(le Róislín)

There are three possible words for mummers in the title of this blog, cleamairí, geamairí, and geocaigh.  There’s actually at least one more we could add, “cleathaire,” but that would break the tripartite catchiness of the phrase! (for more on “tripartite catchiness,” please see the note below).

In this blog, we’ll look at these Irish words for “mummer” and see how they compare to the English word.

Let’s start with the English word “mumming.” None of the Irish words share the same original concept, even though all the terms describe the same basic phenomenon.  There are actually a couple of explanations of “mum,” and they may in fact overlap.  The Old French word “momer” means “to mask oneself,” with “momerie” for “mummery.”  “Mum,” as an adjective, means “silent” (to keep mum) and as an interjection, it means “Be silent!”  It’s probably most widely used today in the warning, “Mum’s the word.”

Although it doesn’t seem to part of the standard derivation of “mummer,” I can’t help but notice another possible root as well.  Middle English had “momele” (to make an inarticulate sound), which like German “mummeln” is related to modern English “mumble.”  And by the way, that’s definitely “momele,” not “Mamele,” which some of you may recognize from “Ask the Mamele” (www.forward.com) or from the 1938 movie of the same name, starring Molly Picon, perhaps more well known as “Yente” in Fiddler on the Roof.

Anyway, it appears that the two ideas, being “masked” and being “silent” (and perhaps being inarticulate), have intertwined here, in our modern sense of mummers.  It’s true that, traditionally, they were not completely silent, with various chants, rhymes, and folk drama texts.  But one feature of traditional mummery that one rarely encounters today is “ingressive speech” (speaking while breathing in, giving one a shrill-sounding, wheezy voice).  Part of traditional Irish mumming was for the audience (usually one household at a time) to guess who was behind the mask, and in small rural communities (some of which still have populations of say 30 or 50 people), one would probably recognize one’s neighbors’ voices.  So the voice was sometimes disguised to add to the awe and the mystery of the celebration.  A folk precursor to voice-changer software?  Or to Darth Vader?

So, that’s the idea, or conglomeration of ideas, behind the English word “mummer.”

And what’s behind the Irish words?  In most cases, the key concept is significantly different from “mummer” as such.

First we have some words that pertain to the material aspects of the celebration:

Lucht an dreoilín, wren-boys, lit. the wren-crowd

Straw-boys, in English, referring to the costume

Alternately, some of the other words for mummer pertain to the nature of the activity, but not to sound per se:

Cleamaire is related to cleamaireacht, which also means “play-acting,” “romping,” or “horse-play.”

Geamaire is related to “geamaí” (games, tricks, capers, gestures) and “geamaíl” (capering, gesturing, posing).

Cleathaire, alternately spelled “cleithire,” is related to “cleithireacht” (tricking, teasing).  A cleathaire can also be a tricky person or a rogue.

Finally, and to me the most interesting, there is presumably a distant connection between “geocach” (mummer) and the word for a “reed” in Irish, “giolcach.”   The words may appear fairly different but remember two general linguistic principles, a) that “l” is a sort of slippery consonant and not always very audible, and b) that unstressed second syllables, like the “-ach” here (at least in some dialects), tend to drop off, or at least be less audible.  We have a possible connection between “geocach” and “giolcach” via words like “geoc” (a reedy, piping voice) and “geocaíl” (piping, squeaking, talking shrilly, silly talk).  It’s not as though this derivation is crystal clear, but it seems reasonable.

Mummering and the house-to-house procession (quête) don’t completely stop with séasúr na Nollag.  As we saw in the last blog, there are also the “biddy-boys” for Lá Fhéile Bríde (1 Feabhra).  In addition, there are May Bush, May Baby, and May Queen processions for Lá Bealtaine (1 Bealtaine), and guisers, “vizards” (“vizard” being an old word for a visor or a mask, originally from French “vis,” face),”hugadais,” buachaillí tuí and “láir bhán” processions, for Oíche Shamhna (31 Deireadh Fómhair).  So no doubt, we’ll revisit these topics in future blogs.

And to wrap up, and to cut to the fun, never mind the etymology, here are two links which will take you to photos or audio clips on the Irish Wren-boys and the Philadelphia Mummers, which I hope you’ll enjoy.

Dingle, Co. Kerry, http://www.heritagecertificate.ie/stories/muiris-rogan-recalls-the-dressing-up-for-wren-boys-day/

For Philadelphia, http://www.mummersmuseum.com/home.html

We’ll probably revisit this topic around St. Bridget’s Day, and perhaps in future blogs as well.  SGF, Róislín

Gluais: comhartha, sign; láir bhán, white mare; uaillbhreas, exclamation

Nóta faoin bhfrása “a thiarcais”: I guess I keep returning to “a thiarcais” because in years of doing Irish, I’ve never found an explanation either from any dictionaries or from other Irish speakers as to what the “tiarcas / tiarcais” part of the phrase actually means.  All I find is how to use it and that the phrase means “My goodness!” or “Oh my!,” plus the fact that it’s lenited and followed by a comhartha uaillbhreasa.  If anyone knows the background to “a thiarcais,” please do write in.   “Item 1 and Item 2 and Item 3, Oh My!” has always been one of my favorite expressions, ever since first hearing the song, “Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!”

As Easy As “Pióg”: How To Say Kinds of Pies in Irish

Posted by róislín No Comments
Nov 12 2011

le Róislín

In the end, you’ll need to be your own judge as to whether this is really “as easy as pie,” but here at least are some tips for naming different types of pies.  And as two holiday seasons approach, Lá Altaithe (Meiriceá) and An Nollaig, what tastier topic?

So let’s look at the terms for five kinds of pie.  Keep in mind that in both Irish and British cooking,  “pie” is at least equally likely to refer to a meat or main-course pie as to a fruit or dessert pie.  So we’ll include a couple of types of pie you wouldn’t likely find in the US.

As usual in Irish, the main noun in the phrase comes first, so we’ll start with “pióg” in each case, followed by the type of pie:

1)      pióg + úll: this one is very straightforward (no changes!), pióg úll, because the word “úll,” describing the type of pie, begins with a vowel (so can’t take the séimhiú that might otherwise apply).  And we don’t really have to worry about the tuiseal ginideach since “úll” means both “an apple” and “of apples.”  If the apple pie is served hot, it’s “pióg úll the,” with the word “te” (warm, hot) changing to “the” [heh, since the “t” is silent; the vowel sound is like the short “e” of English “hen” or “help”].  The adjective “te” gets lenited because the noun “pióg” is feminine, much like you’d say “pióg mhór” or “pióg bheag.”

2)      pióg + meireang + líomóid: pióg mheireang líomóide.  You probably noticed that “meireang” takes séimhiú here, becoming “mheireang” [VERzh-ang] and “líomóid” gets the ending for the tuiseal ginideach, becoming “líomóide.”  Also, note the word order, literally “pie meringue lemon.”

3)      pióg + iasc: pióg éisc.  Can’t say this has ever been very typical i mo chistin féin, but if we’re going to serve it or say it, the word “iasc” ([EE-usk] fish) changes to “éisc” ([ayshk] of fish).  I’m not sure I’ve actually ever eaten pióg éisc.  Cad fútsa?  Sets me wondering, though, what would the Irish be for “starry-gazy” pie (I know, wrong Celts, since starry-gazy pie is actually Cornish, but the question still remains – would one call it “pióg philséar,” since that’s the type of fish involved, or would one say “pióg réaltóireachta,” since “réaltóireacht” means “star-gazing?”  An oiread sin ceisteanna, chomh beag leis an am! )

4)      pióg + stéig + duán: pióg stéige agus duáin.  The “st-“ cluster never gets lenited, so the first part of “stéig” ([shtayg], steak) stays the same, but the word does pick up the “-e” ending, like “líomóid” did (becoming “líomóide”), since they are both sa tuiseal ginideach.  “Duán” [kidney] is also sa tuiseal ginideach but the ending is formed differently since it belongs to a different category of noun (first declension, as opposed to “líomóid” and “stéig,” which are second declension).  “Duáin,” with the letter “i” inserted, means “of kidney.”  Not a typical example of bia Lá Altaithe, is dócha, but a good one to represent the meat pie aspect of Irish (and British) cooking.  In American English, a meat dish baked with a crust is usually called a “pot pie,” to distinguish it from “dessert” pies.

5)      pióg + mionra: pióg mhionra.  So what exactly is the “mionra” of “pióg mhionra?”  “Mionra” usually refers to meat that has been minced (feoil mhionaithe).  The meat can be mairteoil (beef), uaineoil (lamb), or turcaí, and I suppose some less common types of meats as well (oiseoil, mar shampla).  However, meat is actually an optional ingredient in most mince pies these days; their savory taste really comes from the geir (suet), combined with ingredients like úlla mionaithe, ciotrón or craiceann criostalaithe, rísíní, sabhdánaigh, and cuiríní.  Not to mention an brandaí.  Hmmm, geir agus brandaí, who da thunk it?  And why is the word “mionra” lenited here (becoming “mhionra” [VIN-ruh])?  Same reasons as we saw above – the word “pióg” is a feminine noun.

So, sin cúig phióg daoibh.  Ar ndóigh, tá na céadta cineál ann, barraíocht le bheith ag caint fúthu go léir anseo.  The key things to remember for describing them are that the word following “pióg” is usually lenited, because “pióg” is a feminine noun, and that the word describing the contents is usually in the genitive case (an tuiseal ginideach), since the pie is considered to be “of apples,” “of fish,” giving us “éisc” instead of “iasc,” and “stéige” instead of “stéig,” for example.

And in case you’re interested in “pi” of the sórt do-ite, i.e. the inedible type (π), the Irish word is simply “pí.”  It does have a plural, “píonna,” but I must admit that my relationship to “pi” is pretty rusty, and I’d be hard pressed to discuss the plurality of pi, even in English.  But should that topic come up i do chomhráite féin, there you have it. 

Meanwhile, cén t-ainm a bheadh air seo i nGaeilge?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

English: Pi Pie, created at Delft University of Technology, applied physics, seismics and acoustics
Deutsch: Pi Pie (π-Kuchen), hergestellt an der Technischen Universität Delft

“Pióg Phí,” is dócha.  

As for “piecharts,” one might think we’d use the full word “pióg,” as part of the compound, since, after all, “pie” is the basis of the term, but in fact, in Irish, the word is simply “píchairt” (pl: píchairteacha).  Perhaps because a final “-g” followed directly by the lenited “-ch” would be unusual, even in Irish. 

Bhuel, on that mouthwatering note, SGF – Róislín

 

Ceiliúradh Lá na Saoirse sna Stáit Aontaithe (Independence Day)

Posted by róislín No Comments
Jul 7 2009

Here are some of na himeachtaí (the events) that typically happen ar Lá na Saoirse:

 

1. Beárbaiciú: borgairí, brocairí teo, borgairí soighe do na veigeatóirí

Curiously, at least to me, the Irish for “hot dog” isn’t based on the word “dog,” (which would be “madra”), but on “brocaire” (a terrier). 

 

2. Tinte ealaine (fireworks, lit. “fires of art”) or Piriteicnic (pyrotechnics): these could include the Roth Chaitríona and the coinneal Rómhánach

 

3. Éadaí a bhfuil na dathanna dearg, bán agus gorm orthu.  Especially noticeable are the hataí arda Uncail Sam, made from pluis. A lot of people, and sometimes even madraí, also wear bandánaí dearga nó bandánaí gorma.  “Bandana” is one word which requires very little change in Irish, just adding a long mark, or an “i-fada” (í) for the plural.  Just as well, since it’s already a “focal iasachta” (borrowed word) in English, coming from Hiondúis via Portaingéilis, a small but active trade route for words, also including the English “verandah.”

 

4. Daorchluiche, although the English word “baseball” is also widely used in Irish.

 

5. Paráidí go leor, parades galore.

 

Maidir leis an téarma “Lá na Saoirse” é féin, ciallaíonn sé “the day of the freedom,” focal ar fhocal (literally).  Cloistear freisin “Lá Neamhspleáchais,” lit. “Day of Independence.”  Agus, ar ndóigh, “An Ceathrú” (The 4th) nó “An Ceathrú Lá d’Iúil” (The 4th Day of July). 

 

Leideanna Fuaimnithe

soighe [soy-uh, almost like “soy” in English, but the vowel sound is held a little longer]; saoirse [SEER-sheh]

An Bliosán Gréine (Jerusalem Artichoke): Ainm Contráilte i mBéarla ach “Neamhchontráilte” i nGaeilge (An English Misnomer but Irish “Non-Misnomer”)

Posted by róislín 6 Comments
May 25 2009

Tamaillín ó shin (a little while ago, May 6 to be specific), I hinted at a discussion of the term “Jerusalem artichoke” in Irish.  And why not?  It’s suimiúil (interesting) on several counts: “luibheolaíocht” (botany), “logainmníocht” (toponymy), “sanasaíocht” and “bréagshanasaíocht” (etymology and pseudo-etymology), “cócaireacht” (cooking), and “eolas contráilte”(misinformation), to name just a few.

 

You may recall that the key to understanding “Jerusalem artichoke,” the English name of the plant Helianthus tuberosus, is the Italian word “girasole” (turning toward the sun, heliotropic).  It has nothing to do with Jerusalem, which, if it were part of the phrase, would be “Iarúsailéim.”  So, if we look at the word’s history, its sanasaíocht, or in this case, bréagshanasaíocht, we find that the “girasole” element eventually became Jerusalem, through similarity of sound and the fact that so many plant and animal species are, in fact, named after geographic locations, accurate or not.  Stranger things have been known to happen, soundwise, like “sparrowgrass” for “asparagus,” or toponymically, as in Philadelphia Cream Cheese, which originated in New York, or “Panama hats,” which are traditionally made in Ecuador. 

 

Whether the plant actually turns to the sun or not, I will not question here, not being a luibheolaí (botanist), but if anyone can vouch for the plant’s héileatrópacht (heliotropism), I’d be interested to hear about it.   Or maybe we should ask the aptly named character, Miss Heliotrope, from the children’s book, The Little White Horse, which is one of my all-time favorites, and to judge from her recent endorsement, one of J. K. Rowling’s childhood favorites also.  Of course, Miss Heliotrope’s name comes from the color of her nose, which matches the color of the heliotrope flower, and not from any sun-turning propensities, but, sin Á.B.E.

 

Irish, I’m pleased to say, drops the ainm contráilte (misnomer) and simply uses “bliosán gréine” (sun artichoke) for H. tuberosus.  We’re still left with calling this sunflower an “artichoke” but that much seems irreversible.  Apparently its root is edible and tastes something like artichoke, hence the connection.  Can’t say I’ve ever tried it though.  Agus tusa?  Ar ith tú fréamh bliosán gréine riamh? (And yourself?  Ever eat Jerusalem artichoke root?).  If so, I’d be interested to know how it was prepared and I’m sure other readers would be interested too.  That might even help us work on one particularly ambiguous bit of Irish vocabulary, the verb “bruith,” which can mean to boil, bake, broil, grill, or become burnt, usually from the sun, not culinarily, which would typically use the verb “dó” (to burn).  So that’s our cócaireacht connection. 

 

The globe artichoke (Cynara cardunculus), the plant we normally eat, is actually member of the feochadán (thistle) family.  Thistles and their Celtic connections could easily occupy a full blog, so I’ll save that for blag éigin eile. 

 

Pronunciation tip:

sanasaíocht: SAHN-uss-ee-ukht; the “kh” here represents the guttural “ch” sound, like German has in “Buch” or “Achtung” and as in the word “Chutzpah.”

bréagshanasaíocht: remember the “bréag” (false) part is a prefix, which softens or “lenites” the initial “s” of sanasaíocht to “sh,” and that means that the original initial “s” is not pronounced at all!  The “sh” sound in Irish is pronounced like an “h,” so here we have BRAYG-HAHN-uss-ee-ukht.  You may have learned that the first syllable is stressed in pronouncing Irish words, which is true, but the rule changes for compound words.  They typically have equal stress on the prefix and the first syllable, which I indicate here with ceannlitreacha (capital letters). 

 

You can also see this pronunciation rule for prefixes in effect in words like “seanchapall” (old horse), which would be represented as SHAN-KHAHP-ull, with the first two syllables having equal emphasis.  More examples of that later, i mblag eile, if you let me know that “comhfhocail” (compound words) are of particular interest.  Bhur mblagálaí – Róislín

Logainmneacha Ceilteacha agus Náisiúntachtaí a Sé: Celtic Place Names and Nationalities 6 – Cornwall and the Cornish

Posted by róislín No Comments
May 22 2009

We’ve recently discussed the place names Albain, Éire, An Bhreatain Bheag, Oileán Mhanann, and An Bhriotáin.  Today we’ll turn to Cornwall.  Below you’ll find some examples of how to use the place name and how to indicate that a person or thing is Cornish.  Cornwall is called “Corn na Breataine” (horn of Britain) or sometimes “An Corn” in Irish. 

 

Cornach, a Cornishman or person.  Like the terms “Éireannach,” “Albanach,” “Breatnach,” “Manannach,” and “Briotánach,” it can be made feminine, “Cornach mná,” but, as I’ve previously mentioned, this form is rarely used.  The feminine form basically means “a woman Cornishman.” 

 

an Cornach, the Cornishman.  Cornach is also the adjective form.

 

 Some phrases with the place name “Corn na Breataine” include:

 

i gCorn na Breataine: in Cornwall

 

go Corn na Breataine: to Cornwall

 

muintir Chorn na Breataine: the residents of Cornwall

 

 In an interesting twist, the mineral cornwallite is “cornuaillít” in Irish, adapting the “-wall” suffix into Irish spelling. 

  

In a further interesting twist, the two main plant names that in English are designated as pertaining to Cornwall, Cornish heath and Cornish moneywort, lose the Cornish element in their Irish names, which are, respectively, “fraoch gallda” (lit. foreign heather – remember, the perspective is Irish here) and “pingin Dhuibhneach” (lit. penny from Corca Dhuibhne, a region in Co. Kerry).  I’ll let the Cornaigh and the Duibhnigh hash out the plant’s true origins among themselves – our concern here is terminology!

  

“Cornish hen,” the term I thought would be a “shoo-in” to exemplify Cornishness in popular culture and the lenition of feminine singular adjectives in Irish grammar, turns out to be a “shoo-out.”  The situation’s not straightforward at all.  One might think we’d simply use “cearc” (hen) plus “Chornach” (the feminine form of the adjective).  Mícheart (incorrect)!  First of all, this cearc goes by at least four other names (Cornish game hen, poussin, Rock Cornish hen, and Rock Cornish), thickening the plot considerably.  Secondly, it may refer to a specially bred chicken, slaughtered young and designed for one serving.  It isn’t a game bird and can be male or female, so isn’t always a “hen.”  Furthermore, the French word “poussin,” sometimes equated with “Cornish hen,” has two meanings in English, being the “Cornish game hen” in U.S. English and referring to an even smaller and younger bird in U.K. English.  So aside, from noting that the “Rock” element refers to Plymouth Rock, highlighting Cornish Rock’s American origin, I will respectfully bail out of this attempt to Gaelicize Cornish hens.  One might think that the Cornish hen was an indigenous breed, small in size to adapt to the rugged terrain in which it lived, like Kerry and Dexter cattle or Shetland ponies, ach ní mar sin atá sé (that’s not how it is).  Fascinating in their own right, those animals will be featured i mblag éigin eile. 

 

So what’s left to exemplify the adjective “Cornach” in context?  Our last place name feature added the tasty element of crêpes, the Breton specialty.  Although I don’t know of any North American bialanna (restaurants) specializing in Cornwall’s famous culinary creation, the Cornish pasty, we can at least offer the Irish name for it, pastae Cornach.  These pastries were stuffed with meat, potatoes and other vegetables.  They have a folded-over crust and were thus distinguished from pióga feola (meat pies).  Their shape supposedly made it safe for miners to eat their lunch, since they couldn’t always clean the coal dust, which might contain arsenic, off their hands.  According to tradition, the miners discarded the corner of the pastry, which they had touched with their fingers, saying it was for the “knockers.”  

 

 Yes, those are the same supernatural beings who loosely provided the inspiration for Stephen King’s The Tommyknockers.  They would warn miners of possible disasters, at least, one presumes, if you kept them well fed with pasty crusts.  One of these days, I’ll have to check King’s novel, to see if he feeds them properly!

 

And if you are in North America and want to sample pastaetha Cornacha (that’s the plural), you can find them at special events such as the Pasty Fest in Calumet, Michigan, and special church suppers in Cornish-settled parts of Pennsylvania, such as Bangor and Pen Argyl. 

 

 This finishes the series of Celtic place names and identities, at least for the modern period.  One of these days we’ll practice saying, “I am an ancient Gaul,” but for the immediate future, it will probably be more practical to work on phrases such as “Gael-Mheiriceánach” (Irish-American) or Gael-Cheanadach (Irish-Canadian) and to introduce such basics as “American” and “Canadian” in their unlenited forms.  Stay tuned!  – Bhur mblagálaí, Róislín

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