Sunday, May 20, 2018

I Sacsaiḃ na Séad

I Sacsaiḃ na Séad is an 18th century poem of Eoġan Ruaḋ Ó Súilleaḃáin. The title translates as "In England of the Treasures." The poem is a beautiful example of the Aisling form. The version below was taken from "Na hAislingí, Vision Poems," a compilation of Eoġan Ruaḋ's verses published by The Aubane Historical Society in 2002. I took to doing a rough translation of the poem into Spanish and it seems to suit the language, there is a natural bounce to it that doesn't come across easily in English, for example. I've included the literal English translation first from Na hAislingí, the Irish text is below that, and the Spanish, is at the end of the post. The carving below (from the 16th century) is of Sily Nig Donogh MacCarthy Reagh, wife of Donogh O' Sullivan More.


In England of the treasures far from my homeland
In the shadow of the masts by the quays of the tall ships,
And I pondering on the passing of the nobles and the heroes
Done to death in the land of Céin,
By savages in a whirlwind of conquest,
Helpless, valiant though I am in ventures,
Shedding my tears copiously in sorrow,
Without delight, powerless, without pleasure.

I beheld a lady, Grecian, elegant, 
Bright, clever she was of fair appearance,
Feminine, well bred, soft lipped, elegant,
Dignified, modest, well-shaped,
Beautiful, of fair mien, majestic, estimable,
Lively, mature, courteous, 
Coming in haste, light of gait,
She descended next to me a while.

Her thick hair was twisting, 
From the crown of her head to the grass,
Flowing in swift tremors,
Her eyebrows were slender, her eyes were inviting,
Her face and appearance were lustrous,
The ember was red on the fresh lily,
In her cheek seeking supremacy,
And more elegant was every verse her voice uttered,
Than the plucking of fingers on a gentle harp.

Her teeth were of the likeness of a swan's appearance
on the foam wet fury of the sea,
her keen breasts were undefiled 
by the wanton tricks of Cupid;
Her ready slender hand inscribed very clearly 
Bears and tall ships, 
the battles of hundreds, savage wolves,
Fishes and feathered flocks.

Her fine, graceful body doubled my pangs,
From the crown of her head to the grass in correct proportions,
From which my appearance crumbled and I was struck dumb;
My vigorous limbs were enfeebled,
I was blinded after all these events, 
Though I spoke to her timidly,
And I enquired of the lady her name and her story,
Her tribe and her company to tell me.

I took heart after her words, 
I was silent awhile I deferred to her, 
I desired her beauty, her mein and her person,
A circumstance that was no disgrace to me;
Every organ of my limbs was active, strong,
I was not long faint and at a loss,
Whenever I supposed that the woman was one who was devoted to
The forms and sins of lust.

Answer me, are you the illustrious lady 
who brought about the fury war of the guiltless Troy?
Or the maiden who wrought the grief and overthrow of the Irish
In the lands of Céin and Iughgoin,
That left the nobles and bards of those lands
In weakness under the yoke of churls?
Or the lady who leaped afar over the sea,
From Eamhain, with a knight in his strong ship?

I am none of those you tell of in your lying stories
And I shall not relate a story to a savage such as you,
A scion of the clan of Luther,
A savage in mien, in outlook and in treachery,
A rake and a coxcomb from London,
Who are in arms and armour arrayed, lacerating
The limbs and shelter of my prince.

Do not insult me, O bright countenanced lady of fair hair,
By this book in my hand, I am not one their blood,
But I am a feeble traveller who goes over the raging ocean,
Who was torn far away by the hair of my head, 
Aiding the person I was not of a mind to,
In the gunships on the foaming ocean,
And my tribe is of the strain of the bloodstream of the Irish
In Caiseal of the provincial kingships.

As it is true that you are one of the Royal blood of Caiseal
Then for a while I was united with you,
I shall myself relate to you the exploits of my travels,
And I will tell you my true name;
Poets call me deceitful Éire,
A hussey of treacherous ways,
Who gave insult and injury,
Through deceit with the foreigners,
To the company of my native homesteads.

From the lands of Céin and the worthy Éibhear,
Over the ocean of ropes I fled easily,
With a message of news from the clans of the Irish, 
That soon they would make a conquest,
That they would scatter every bear of the company
Of mercaneries of the root-stock of London,
Here's to the life of the heroes, and he shall return in power
My champion, as king, to Dún Luirc.

Bards of verse and knowledge prophesy,
His coming in battle ranks and troops,
Strong, valiant, chivalrous, thrashing
Fat bucks of foreign manners,
From the examining of every story their time is spent,
By which they must submit,
And adopt different manners, though it is bitter for them to accept it
And yield authority to authors.

I fear, oh illustrious maiden!
That this tale you devise is a lying pastime
The savages are too strong in their ships that have no care
For King Charles, your prince,
Every measure of assistance is wanting,
And the Irish people are cowed,
Without freehold lands as their clerics were accustomed
who waxed strong in noble Ireland.

I must keep silent, perforce
In the land of the beast-like foreigners,
Since I happen to be a while in bondage, 
A circumstance that left me truly downcast;
Tell my story to the poets at home,
And they will send a verse to me,
That will scatter my grief, though full of streams
Of tears so that I am blinded senseless.

By the river of the moor is the worthy phoenix,
Manly, festive, feasting, generous, 
A support in clearly analysing texts,
And wise, learned, subtle,
Who would compose every verse without stupidity,
Do not forget to call in his house
And he will protect you kindly in his company while he reads
In verses every step of your adventures.

Of the true-stock of the Irish is the keen, pure scion,
A true pearl of his native land,
who is descended from the blood of the bards and knights who were not cowardly
In conflicts of hard-fought battles,
Noble, sturdy Séan of the root-stock of Eachaidh,
It is he who will take you in his affection
And grant you to himself, above any of my relatives,
My lady without protection for her treasures.






En Inglaterra de los tesoros, lejos de mi patria
A la sombra de los mástiles, de barcos robustos que esperan en los muelles
Pensando sobre el fallecimiento de los nobles y heroes, 
Girando y girando mi tierra anciana,
Hechos de salvajes en un torbellino de conquistas,
Indefenso, aunque soy valiente en mis aventuras 
Llorando mis lágrimas largas de tristeza,
Sin felicidad, sin poder, sin placer.

Vi una visión griega, bien formada,
Cristalina, una doncella intelligente, de buen aspecto,
Femenina, de buena sangre, 
Con labios carnosos sabrosos,
Era Noble, cariñosa, de forma ovalada, 
Hermosa, majestuosa, honrosa, respetuosa,
Animada, madura, amistosa, 
Aterrizó a mi lado un rato.

Su pelo poblado ondulaba
Girando desde su coronilla hasta el césped,
Sus cejas cortas, su mirada anhelante,
Su aspecto y su rostro brillante;
Fresco, un ascua ardiente, un lirio rojo
Sus Mejillas sonrosadas me estaban conquistando,
Más dulce cada declaración suya
Que arranca cualquier mano una arpa;

Su sonrisa que se asemeja al cisne blanco
En un mar salvaje espumosa,
Su mamá fuerte, no fue violada 
Con los trucos lascivos de Cúpido;
Sus manos largas, un tapiz tan claro, 
Osos, veleros, ¿cuantos gritos de guerra?
Lobos feroces, peces, bandadas de aves plumadas.

Su cuerpo esbelto ha doblado mi dolor,
Arriba y abajo, en proporción perfecta,
Atrofia mi aspecto, me puso mudo;
Puso débil mis ramas ágiles,
Ciego después sus hechos,
Habalaba con ella de forma tímida, 
Preguntaba su nombre, historia,
Su clan y compañía a relacionar;

Su discurso que relató me da valentía,
Escuche con cortesia,
Desía su aspecto, su persona, su presencia,
Un caso que no me ha dado vergüenza;
Cada miembro listo, activo, robusto, 
Estaba desmoronado sin tardar,
Cuando percibí que fue la moza que 
Ama los rasgos y pecados de la lujuría.

¿Dígame eres tu la dama illustre 
que trae furía y guerra a Troya inocente?
¿ó ella que causa la misera y destrucción de los gaélicos,
en las tierras de Céin y Lugha,
Que los nobles y su séquito,
Ha dejado enclenque e inquieto?
¿O la heroína que saltaba a través aguas saladas
desde Eamhain de los titánes y falúas?

No soy ninguna de ellas que has mencionada
En sus historias torcidas,
Ni voy a contar cuentos con un callejero, 
De la rama de Lutero que te asemeja,
Bárbaro en rostro, infamia y felonía,
Vagabundo y gomoso de Londres,
Que en vestido de guerra estas cortando
las ramas y amparo de mi Principe Carlos.

No me denigre, dama brillante con pelo ondulando, 
Te juro con este libro en mi mano, no soy de aquel grupo,
He viajado deslúcido sobre el vaivén de los olas,
Arrancado del pelo a tierras lejanas, 
Ayudando alguien que no quería,
En cañoneros de alta mar 
Mi sangre fluya de la raza gaélica
En Caise de los cinco reyes.

Por lo que eres de sangre de los reyes de Caise
Intimaremos un rato
Te voy a contar las hazañas de mi historia 
Y mi nombre de verdad 
Los poetas me han llamado, engañado Éire,
Una fulana de maneras oscuras 
Que nos han ofendido y viciado con extanjeros
las tribús de mi tierra. 

En el país de Chéin y Éibhir honoroso
desde los puertos amarrados sin duda huí
con noticias desde los clanes de los irlandeses
que en breve conquistarían
desperdigarse cada tirano de la tropa
del condotiero del veradero ciudadano de Londres
!Saludos a los quijotes! ojalá que reinara 
Mi paladín, mi monarca en Dún Luirc.

Los bardos y los sabíos profetizaron
Su venida en columnas sólidas de guerra
Feroz, audaz, homérico, 
Arrancando los moles imitando maneras extranjeras,
Escudriñando cada historia, sus días son contados,
Tendrán que rendir,
Cambian sus modas, que es arduo,
y vencer al autoridad docto.

Creo, mi dama ilustre,
que este cuento que cuentas es falso
los forasteros en sus barco fuertes
Impacible al rey Carlos tu príncipe,
Cada nivel de ayuda en ausencia 
Y el linaje de los irlandeses medrosos
Sin dominio como tenía su clero
Tan seguro en Irlanda noble.

Encadenado estoy, tengo que estar callado 
En este terreno extranjero de bestias
Este tiempo que he pasado de esclavitud 
Me ha encontrado lóbrego
Quenta mi historia en las asambleas de mi tierra
Y envía un estrofa a mí 
que disapare mi dolor, aunque llore lágrimas
que me ha dejado mudo y ciego.

Al río en la ladera hay el fénix valioso
Macho, festivo, feriado, filántropo,
Un ayuda en medir tan fluido los textos
Sabio, versado, sútil
Que compone cada poesía sin problemas
No olvide de pasar por su pueblo
Donde cuidaré con cariño cuando lea
En versos cada paso de sus aventuras.

De Los autenticos Gaélicos es el galán, agudo, guerrero
La Perla de su patria 
Su sangre de los sabios y héroes que no fallaban
En combates arduos, 
Juan honrado, de los troncos del linaje de Eachaidh
Es el que tomará en sus brazos,
Y servirte más que cualquier otro
Mi dama, aunque sin cobijo son sus joyas.























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