Pan elei dy dat ty e helya; llath ar y ysgwyd llory eny law. Ef gelwi gwn gogyhwc. Giff! Gaff! Dhaly! Dhaly! Dhwg! Dhwg! Ef lledi bysc yng corwc. Mal ban llad. Llew llywywg. Pan elei dy dat ty e vynyd. Dydygai ef penn ywrch penn gwythwch pen hyd. Penn grugyar vreith o venyd. Penn pysc o rayadyr derwennyd. Or sawl yt gyrhaedei dy dat ty ae gicwein o wythwch a llewyn a llwyuein. Nyt anghei oll ny uei oradein.” -x
*The first count of eight, as well as the number of slaves, or ”ones in chains”, is in Old Welsh. The second (yan, tan, tethera, methera, etc.) is one of the variations of Cumbrian sheep-counting numerals.
“Dinogad’s shift is speckled, speckled; It was made from the pelts of martens. `Wheet! Wheet! a-whistling, I would sing, sang the eight in chains. (….seven, six, five, four, three, two, one in chains…)
When your father went out to hunt – A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand – He called on his lively dogs, `Giff! Gaff! Take, take! Fetch, fetch!’ He killed fish from his coracle Like the lion killing small animals. When your father went to the mountains He would bring back a roebuck, a boar, a stag, A speckled grouse from the mountain, And a fish from the Derwennydd falls. At whatever your father aimed his spear – Be it a boar, a wild cat, or a fox – None would escape but that had strong wings.” –x
Reblogging with a better transcription and notes!
It took me a long time to figure out the series of numerals counting down the number of slaves/ones in chains, because the song is actually missing a numeral; it skips from “five in chains” to “three in chains”; there’s no “petuargeith”, or equivalent. At least, I think so. I’m flying blind, I don’t speak Old Welsh.
Yy Adar Gwylltion– Ffynnon
Anonymous medieval verses from T.H.Parry Williams’ collection ‘Hen Penillion’
“Gwyn ei byd, yr adar gwylltion Hwy gânt fynd y ffordd a ffynnon Rhai tua’r mor a rhai tua’r mynydd A d’ad adref yn ddigerydd
Gwyn fy myd, na fedrwn hedeg Bryn a phant a goriwaered Mynnwn wybod, er ei gwaethaf P’le mae’r gog yn cysgu’r gaeaf
Yn y coed y mae hi’n cysgu Ac yn yr eithin mae hi’n nythu Yn y llwyn, tan ddail y bedw Dyna’r fan y bydd hi’n farw
Gwyn fy myd, na fedrwn hedeg Bryn a phant a goriwaered Weithiau i’r môr a weithiau’r mynydd A d?ad adref yn ddigerydd”
“Perfect their world, the wild birds That fly by the roadway and the fountain Sometimes to the sea, sometimes to the mountain And come blameless home
Perfect my world, though I cannot fly Hill and dale and fellside I want to know, however bad Where the cuckoo sleeps in the winter
In the wood she sleeps And in the gorse she nests In the bush, under birch leaves That is the place where she will die
Perfect my world, though I cannot fly Hill and dale and fellside Sometimes to the sea, sometimes to the mountain And come blameless home”
It’s that time of year again, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to remind you of all the things I have to celebrate.
Love, ~Melkor
((there’s no audio, don’t worry))
You have enraged the Fëa-plush
Well, hi there little fella! Whatcha doin? Coming to pick on me in my volcano? Don’t singe your snuggle cape! Aaaw, who’s a precious little kinslaying squishy bean? You are!
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“Happy Noldor Independence Day” ❤
It’s that time of year again, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to remind you of all the things I have to celebrate.
Pan elei dy dat ty e helya; llath ar y ysgwyd llory eny law. Ef gelwi gwn gogyhwc. Giff! Gaff! Dhaly! Dhaly! Dhwg! Dhwg! Ef lledi bysc yng corwc. Mal ban llad. Llew llywywg. Pan elei dy dat ty e vynyd. Dydygai ef penn ywrch penn gwythwch pen hyd. Penn grugyar vreith o venyd. Penn pysc o rayadyr derwennyd. Or sawl yt gyrhaedei dy dat ty ae gicwein o wythwch a llewyn a llwyuein. Nyt anghei oll ny uei oradein.” -x
*The first count of eight, as well as the number of slaves, or ”ones in chains”, is in Old Welsh. The second (yan, tan, tethera, methera, etc.) is one of the variations of Cumbrian sheep-counting numerals.
“Dinogad’s shift is speckled, speckled; It was made from the pelts of martens. `Wheet! Wheet! a-whistling, I would sing, sang the eight in chains. (….seven, six, five, four, three, two, one in chains…)
When your father went out to hunt – A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand – He called on his lively dogs, `Giff! Gaff! Take, take! Fetch, fetch!’ He killed fish from his coracle Like the lion killing small animals. When your father went to the mountains He would bring back a roebuck, a boar, a stag, A speckled grouse from the mountain, And a fish from the Derwennydd falls. At whatever your father aimed his spear – Be it a boar, a wild cat, or a fox – None would escape but that had strong wings.” –x
This beautiful Swedish lady sings an ancient Viking song. Now watch how the cows respond.
It is often argued that everything our ancestors did and said gets stored into our brains. Their experience and knowledge gets passed down from generation to generation. This may explain why we know or react to certain things without having any prior knowledge.
Kulning is an ancient herding call used in the Scandinavian region. The call is a high pitch tone that can reach long distances. The herding call sounds more like a haunting and sad melody meant to echo through mountains and alleys.
It was getting late and foggy on a magical night last month when Swedish artist Jonna Jinton wanted to try kulning. She wanted to find out if the animals would answer to the call their own ancestors heard when the women called them. Kulning might just be one of the most beautiful and enchanting sounds ever made.
Never in my life have I so badly wanted to be able to download the audio from a video.
Qui Veut Chasser Une Migraine; An Early French Drinking Song –Joel Frederiksen
“Qui veut chasser une migraine N’a qu’à boire toujours du bon Et maintenir la table pleine De cervelas et de jambon. L’eau ne fait rien que pourrir le poumon, Goûte, goûte, goûte, goûte compagnon! Vide-nous ce verre et nous le remplirons.”
“Whoever want to chase a headache Has only to drink well And keep the table laden with sausages and ham; Water does nothing but rot the lungs; Taste, taste, taste, my friend! Empty this glass and we will refill it.” –x
Ooh, I didn’t reblog this one yet!
W. D. Snodgrass’s eminently singable translation (found in Selected Translations, and I have to say he’s very good at these):
“Who wants to cure a migraine, let him Drink up good wine and scuppernong. Sausage and ham at table set him And keep his pantry freshly hung. Water’s no good, it only rots your lung. Down it, down it, down it, flood it down your tongue; Drain it off, good lads, we’ll brim it from the bung.
Wine that’s beloved by our good father, Keeping him handsome, lithe, and young, Makes us so wise we never bother Studying, since we’re never wrong. Water’s no good,…etc.
[verse 3 snipped because it’s not used in this recording]
Drain off your glass; let every kidney Flow with a function fresh and strong. Death to the man so vile and piddly He’d slander those he drinks among. Water’s no good,…etc.”
Oh my god, bless you for providing this translation, I was at my wit’s end trying to find the rest of these verses! (Google only gets one so far in the department of medieval chanson lyrics…)
Qui Veut Chasser Une Migraine; An Early French Drinking Song –Joel Frederiksen
“Qui veut chasser une migraine N’a qu’à boire toujours du bon Et maintenir la table pleine De cervelas et de jambon. L’eau ne fait rien que pourrir le poumon, Goûte, goûte, goûte, goûte compagnon! Vide-nous ce verre et nous le remplirons.”
“Whoever want to chase a headache Has only to drink well And keep the table laden with sausages and ham; Water does nothing but rot the lungs; Taste, taste, taste, my friend! Empty this glass and we will refill it.” –x
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 