(MacConglinne then narrates a fable concerning the land of O’Early-Eating, etc.)
Then in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef-fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds, with its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole-pins of marrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed she was a sound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse of New-Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead, over swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of gravy, past woods dewy with meat-juice, past springs of savoury lard, by islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of old curds, along strands of dry-cheese, until we reached the firm level beach between Butter-Mount and Milk-Lake and Curd-Point, at the mouth of the pass to the country of O’Early-Eating, in front of the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor. Every oar we plied in New-Milk Lake would send its sea-sand of cheese-curds to the surface.... Marvellous, indeed, was the hermitage in which I then found myself. Around it were seven score hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of the thorns above the top of every long stake was fried juicy lard of choice well-fed boar, in expectation of a battle against the tribes of Butter-fat and Cheese that were on New-Milk Lake, warring against the Wizard Doctor. There was a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage.
Let an active, white-handed, sensible, joyous woman wait upon thee, who must be of good repute.... Let this maiden give thee thy thrice nine morsels, O MacConglinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as a heathfowl’s egg. Those morsels then must be put in thy mouth with a swinging jerk, and thine eyes must whirl about in thy skull whilst thou art eating them. The eight kinds of grain thou must not spare, O MacConglinne, wheresoever they are offered thee—viz., rye, wild-oats, beare, buckwheat, wheat, barley, fidbach, oats. Take eight cakes of each fair grain of these, and eight condiments with every cake, and eight sauces with each condiment; and let each morsel thou puttest in thy mouth be as big as a heron’s egg. Away now to the smooth panikins of cheese-curds, O MacConglinne:
- to fresh pigs,
- to loins of fat,
- to boiled mutton,
- to the choice easily-discussed thing for which the hosts contend—the gullet of salted beef;
- to the dainty of the nobles, to mead;
- to the cure of chest-disease—old bacon;
- to the appetite of pottage—stale curds;
- to the fancy of an unmarried woman—new milk;
- to a queen’s mash—carrots;
- to the danger awaiting a guest—ale;
- to a broken head—butter roll;
- to hand-upon-all—dry bread;
- to the pregnant thing of a hearth—cheese;
- to the bubble-burster—new ale;
- to the priest’s fancy—juicy kale;
- to the treasure that is smoothest and sweetest of all food—white porridge;
- to the anchor—broth;
- to the double-looped twins—sheep’s tripe;
- to the dues of a wall—sides (of bacon);
- to the bird of a cross—salt;
- to the entry of a gathering—sweet apples;
- to the pearls of a household—hen’s eggs;
- to the glance of nakedness—kernels.
When he had reckoned me up those many viands, he ordered me my drop of drink. “A tiny little measure for thee, MacConglinne, not too large, only as much as twenty men will drink, on the top of those viands: of very thick milk, of milk not too thick, of milk of long thickness, of milk of medium thickness, of yellow bubbling milk, the swallowing of which needs chewing, of the milk the snoring bleat of a ram as it rushes down the gorge, so that the first draught says to the last draught, ‘I vow, thou mangy cur, before the Creator, if thou comest down I’ll go up, for there is no room for the doghood of the pair of us in this treasure-house.’ ...”
At the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of those many pleasant viands in the king’s presence, the lawless beast that abode in the inner bowels of Cathal MacFinguine came forth, until it was licking its lips outside his head. The scholar had a large fire beside him in the house. Each of the pieces was put in order to the fire, and then one after the other to the lips of the king. One time, when one of the pieces was put to the king’s mouth, the son of malediction darted forth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student’s hand, and, taking it with him across the hearth to the other side, bore it below the caldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the caldron was overturned on him.
From an Irish manuscript of the 12th century,
translated by Kuno Meyer.
THE ROMAN EARL.
No man’s trust let woman claim,