Introduction

The wit and wisdom of the Gael are tightly packed in the proverb. Irish proverbs elucidate the Irish mind in a distilled fashion,frequently throwing light on aspects of social and cultural history. Certain media mandarins who question the very existence of ‘an Irish mind’ are themselves, generally, un­familiar with native lore.

 ‘Ba é chéad bhia aran sliogán dó na scéalta sin’ means ‘he was nurtured on those tales’. But look how the Irish language concretises things – a great boon in this age of linguistic obfuscation: literally it says ‘the first food on the shell for him was those tales’. The image of the shell (used as a plate) springs to the visual mind immediately.

Traditionally, the Gaelic mind has abhorred abstractions sot hat abstract truths are represented here by metaphor and simile drawn from the natural world. That natural world is one of endless variety. Thus, in Irish a potato isn’t just a potato. Munster people say práta (prawtha) and Connacht people say fata, giving rise to the observation that the Connacht people would have washed, boiled and eaten their potatoes by the time it took the Munster people to say práta!

But what about falcaire, an old seed-potato, or a dried-up one, used to describe a deceptive person! Prochán is a potato roasted in ashes –or a podgy person. Sliomach is a soft potato or a spineless individual, creachán,a small potato or a puny person.

The proverbial mind, therefore, creeps into single words,investing them with praise, derision or whatever. One word, stadhan, describesa flock of birds over a shoal of fish. One word, gabhgaire, describes an onlooker at a game of cards. The word canúnaí means someone interested in or addicted to dialect. Where else in the world would you find such an addiction!

I have read nature poetry, proverbs and weather lore toinner-city children who have never seen a frog or a heron or touched bog-cottonor enjoyed the aroma of turf. And yet, teachers and librarians assure me that their minds are fired by wildlife, as if some ancient memory of mountains andt he sea still lingers on in the genetic pool. Fanciful? Perhaps.

The mind that created these proverbs no longer exists in its full integrity: the language is thinning out, where it has not actually been stilled, and with this loss comes a less sophisticated res­ponse to the diversity of nature and an im­pov­erished nomen­clature. But we can absorb that mind, to a lesser or greater degree. At least a hundred of these proverbs are a living part of my own con­scious­ness, my mental furniture. Their use­fulness is not merely by way of repartee. In a way they form the groundwork for a mental Ninja-culture, an adroitness, a sharp­ness always to hand when the dross and morass of contemporary culture threatens to stifle us, utterly.

Irish is no mere folksy language of quaint ex­pressions. It has the oldest, most sophisticated literature in Western Europe. To this day eighty or so books are published yearly in Irish. Many see the language in a state of inevitable decline. Estimates of the number of native speakers sometimes fall below the 20,000 mark.

It would be a tragedy beyond words if the Irish language disappeared and those of us who know and love the language would not wish to see one single word perish. Floreat!

Meileann muilte Dé go mall.

God’s mill grinds slow.

Is olc an t-éan a shalaíonn a nead féin.

It’s a bad bird that fouls its own nest.

Ní hé lá na gaoithe lá na scolb.

The windy day is no day for scollops.

Is olc an chearc nach scríobann di féin.

It’s a poor hen that won’t scratch for herself.

Tosach sláinte codladh.

Sleep is the first sign of recovery.

Tuar an t-ádhagus tiocfaidh sé!

Predict good fortune and it will come!

Ag caitheamh an tsaoil is an saol ár gcaitheamh.

We consume time while she consumes us.

Paidir chapaill

A horse’s prayer

Is mairg a d’imreadh a mháthair orthu.

Woe to him who’d bet his mother on them!

Is fuirist gabháilthar dhoras duine mhairbh

Nuair ná bionn sé féin ná a mhadra istigh.

It is easy to pass the dead man’s door

When himself and his dog aren’t there anymore.

Na trí ní is mó giodam:

Piscín cait,

Meannán gabhair,

Nó baintreach óg mhná.

The three friskiest things:

The kitten,

The kid goat,

The young widow.