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Fore them neidfaerae   naenig uuiurthit
thoncsnottura   than him tharf sie,
to ymbhycggannae,   aer his hiniongae,
huaet his gastae   godaes aeththa yflaes
aefter deothdaege   doemid uueorthae.

15thC (?) Depiction of Death; the struggle for the dying man’s soul

Before that needful-journey no-one becomes
wiser than it is necessary for him
to consider, before his going-hence,
what his soul by way of good or evil
may be deemed, after the death-day.

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Catullus XVI

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,
qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,
quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.
nam castum esse decet pium poetam
ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est;
qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem
si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici
et quod pruriat incitare possunt,
non dico pueris sed his pilosis
qui duras nequeunt movere lumbos.
vos, quod milia multa basiorum
legistis, male me marem putatis?
pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

-Gaius Valerius Catullus

Catullus 16

I will sodomise and face-fuck you,
cocksucking Aurelius and poofter Fucius,
because you thought me, because of my little verses,
which are a bit sissy, indecent.
For a proper poet should be pure,
himself, but his poems don’t need to be;
indeed, they have salt and wit
if they’re sissified and indecent,
and only when they can arose an itch,
not, I say, in boys, but those hairy men
who cannot move their rough cocks.
Because you’ve read of my thousands of kisses,
you suppose I’m a soft man?
I will sodomise and then skull-fuck you.

-Catullus

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Int én bec

Int én bec
ro·léic feit
do rind guip
glanbuidi
fo·ceird faíd
ós Loch Laíg
lon do craíb
charnbuidi.

The Blackbird of Belfast Lough

The little bird
lets a whistle go
from the point of a beak,
bright yellow:
throws out a cry
above Loch Laíg,
a blackbird from branch
(a cairn of yellow).

As a special treat, a translation into Modern Irish:

An t-éan beag
a lig fead
de rinn ghoib
ghlanbhuí;
caitheann [sé] faí
os Loch Laoi
lon de chraobh
charnbhuí.

-Nollag Ó Muiríle (2007)

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Acher in Gaíth

Is acher in gaíth innocht,
fu·fúasna fairggae findḟolt:
ni·ágor réimm mora minn
dond láechraid lainn úa Lothlind.

Detail from "The Viking Terror" by Denis Brown

Sharp the Wind

The wind is sharp tonight,
it tosses the white hare of the ocean:
I fear not the coursing of the clear sea
by the fierce warriors from Lothlainn.

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Ic þis giedd wrece          bi me ful geomorre,
minre sylfre sið.    Ic þæt secgan mæg,
hwæt ic yrmþa gebad,     siþþan ic up weox,
niwes oþþe ealdes,         no ma þonne nu.

A ic wite wonn          minra wræcsiþa.
Ærest min hlaford gewat          heonan of leodum
ofer yþa gelac;     hæfde ic uhtceare
hwær min leodfruma          londes wære.
Ða ic me feran gewat          folgað secan,

wineleas wræcca,          for minre weaþearfe,
ongunnon þæt þæs      monnes magas hycgan
þurh dyrne geþoht,      þæt hy todælden unc,
þæt wit gewidost          in woruldrice
lifdon laðlicost,          ond mec longade.

Het mec hlaford min          herheard niman,
ahte ic leofra lyt          on þissum londstede,
holdra freonda.          For þon is min hyge geomor.
Ða ic me ful gemæcne          monnan funde,
heardsæligne,           hygegeomorne,

mod miþendne,          morþor hycgendne.
bliþe gebæro.      Ful oft wit beotedan
þæt unc ne gedælde          nemne deað ana
owiht elles;          eft is þæt onhworfen,
is nu swa hit        næfre wære,

freondscipe uncer.        Sceal ic feor ge neah
mines felaleofan          fæhðu dreogan.
Heht mec mon wunian          on wuda bearwe,
under actreo          in þam eorðscræfe.
Eald is þes eorðsele,          eal ic eom oflongad,

sindon dena dimme,          duna uphea,
bitre burgtunas,          brerum beweaxne,
wic wynna leas.          Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat
fromsiþ frean.          Frynd sind on eorþan,
leofe lifgende,          leger weardiað,

þonne ic on uhtan          ana gonge
under actreo          geond þas eorðscrafu.
Þær ic sittan mot          sumorlangne dæg,
Þær ic wepan mæg          mine wræcsiþas,
earfoþa fela;          forþon ic æfre ne mæg

þære modceare          minre gerestan,
ne ealles þæs longaþes          þe mec on þissum life begeat.
A scyle geong mon          wesan geomormod,
heard heortan geþoht,          swylce habban sceal
bliþe gebæro,          eac þon breostceare,

sinsorgna gedreag,          sy æt him sylfum gelong
eal his worulde wyn,          sy ful wide fah
feorres folclondes,          þæt min freond siteð
under stanhliþe          storme behrimed,
wine werigmod,          wætre beflowen

on dreorsele,         dreogeð se min wine
micle modceare;          he gemon to oft
wynlicran wic.          Wa bið þam þe sceal
of langoþe          leofes abidan.

Ærest min hlaford gewat | heonan of leodum / ofer yþa gelac...

by Katie West (but Matt took this)

The Wife’s Lament

I recite this fully sad song of myself,
my own experience. I can say that,
what I endured of hardships, since I grew up,
new or old, were never more than now.
Ever I suffered the torment of exile.

First my lord departed hence from the people,
over the tumult of the waves; I had dawn-cares:
where may my prince be in the land?
When I went, departed to seek the retinue,
a friendless wanderer, for my necessary woe,
this one’s kin began to plan,
through secret thought, that they should separate us,
that we most widely in the world-kingdom
will live most wretchedly- and me afflicted with longing.

My lord commanded me to dwell in a grove;
I have few of beloved ones in this landstead,
few of loyal friends; for this is my soul sad.
When I found for me a fully suitable man,
ill-fated, mind-sad,
concealing his spirit, violence plotted
with a blithe demeanour. Fully often we vowed
that we would never separate- ought else save
death alone. Afterwards is that changed:
it is now as if it never were,
our friendship. I must -far or near-
endure the enmity of my dearly-loved.

I am commanded by one to dwell in a wooded grove,
under an oak-tree in this earth-cave.
Old is this earth-hall, I am all seized with longing.
Dim are the dales, high the hills,
bitter cities overgrown by briars,
the dwelling joyless. Fully often the lord’s departure
cruelly takes hold of me. friends are on earth,
living lovers occupy their bed,
when I, alone, wander in the pre-dawn
under an oak-tree, through these earth-caves.

There I may sit the summer-long day;
There I can weep for my miseries,
many of hardships; thus I can never
ease my heart-care there,
nor all this longing which this life bequeathed unto me.

Ever must a young one be sad of mood,
hard of heart in thought; thus he shall have
a blithe demeanour and also breast-cares,
endure constant sorrow; let him be dependent on himself
for all his worldly joy, be very widely outcast
far from his folk’s land, so that my friend sits
under a stormy stone-cliff, frost-covered,
my lord weary in mind, drenched by water
in a desolate hall; he suffers, my friend,
with great heart-grief; he remembers too often
a more delightful abode. Woe be to him who shall
await for long the beloved.

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