Gaelic Scottish Quotes

I'm a multi-lingual Kundalini-dancing shapeshifter to the 69th degree. I know French, Italian, Arabic, Egyptian Arabic, Greek, Latin, Gaelic, Scottish, English, and American English. I'm cunninglingual.

A Naoimh Mìcheal Àird-aingeal, dìon sinn anns an àm a' chatha. Bi mar thèarmann againn an aghaidh an donais agus na ribeachan an Diabhail. Guma thoir Dia achmhasan air, tha sinn a’ guidhe gu h-umhail, agus caith dh’ifrinn, a Phrionnsa an t-sluaigh nèamhaidh, tro chumhachd Dè, Satàn agus na droch-spioradan eile a tha air allaban timcheall an t-saoghail a' lorg anman a mhilleadh. Holy Michael the Archangel, defend us in time of battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly beseech thee, and cast into hell, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the divine power, Satan and all the other evil spirits who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls

Whilst I complain about Edinburgh, I like it here really. They say that makes me dour, it’s Scottish for miserable bastard. They gave a single word in a Gaelic that means ‘my eternal doom is upon me’, I can’t remember it right now. They are an old nation. They have a great wit at times. They need it to survive the damn weather.

Johnstone railway station was small, neat and tidy, quite attractive. On the platforms, I noticed that the signs also had the name in Gaelic – ‘Baile Iain’, literally ‘John’s town’. It is a recent wheeze by the triumphant, all-conquering Scottish National Party to add the Gaelic name to every station in the whole of Scotland, despite the fact that most of these places never had a Gaelic name or people who ever spoke Gaelic.

Lowlanders who left Scotland for Ireland between 1610 and 1690 were biologically compounded of many ancestral strains. While the Gaelic Highlanders of that time were (as they are probably still) overwhelmingly Celtic in ancestry, this was not true of the Lowlanders. Even if the theory of 'racial' inheritance of character were sound, the Lowlander had long since become a biological mixture, in which at least nine strains had met and mingled in different proportions. Three of the nine had been present in the Scotland of dim antiquity, before the Roman conquest: the aborigines of the Stone Ages, whoever they may have been; the Gaels, a Celtic people who overran the whole island of Britain from the continent around 500 B.C.; and the Britons, another Celtic folk of the same period, whose arrival pushed the Gaels northward into Scotland and westward into Wales. During the thousand years following the Roman occupation, four more elements were added to the Scottish mixture: the Roman itself—for, although Romans did not colonize the island, their soldiers can hardly have been celibate; the Teutonic Angles and Saxons, especially the former, who dominated the eastern Lowlands of Scotland for centuries; the Scots, a Celtic tribe which, by one of the ironies of history, invaded from Ireland the country that was eventually to bear their name (so that the Scotch-Irish were, in effect, returning to the home of some of their ancestors); and Norse adventurers and pirates, who raided and harassed the countryside and sometimes remained to settle. The two final and much smaller components of the mixture were Normans, who pushed north after they had dealt with England (many of them were actually invited by King David of Scotland to settle in his country), and Flemish traders, a small contingent who mostly remained in the towns of the eastern Lowlands. In addition to these, a tenth element, Englishmen—themselves quite as diverse in ancestry as the Scots, though with more of the Teutonic than the Celtic strains—constantly came across the Border to add to the mixture.

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

If you know so much,then tell me of Lily or are you too swayed by her beauty?" "Aye,she's beautiful, but also complicated and young.She is an....an opportunist,but not necessarily a selfish one." "Ha.She can be. Lily's world revolves only around her." Tyr chuckled and the sound sent ripples of awareness down her arms. "I'd rather talk about you, Lady Edythe." "I'd rather not." "Lady Edythe," Tyr repeated, drawing out her name. His forehead wrinkled. "No. Don't like it. A girl like you needs a nickname." She hadn't been a "girl" for several years,and Edythe was irked that he saw her as such. "That's one thing I'll never want." "That's a shame.Everyone should have a nickname." "Really,then what's yours?" Tyr licked his lips and in a low voice, lied, "Bachelor." "Fitting," Edythe retorted. "I doubt with your type of self-serving charm, too many women vie to change that status." Tyr clucked his tongue, completely unfazed by her ridiculous barb. "Ed,I think.Little and sweet...just like you." "Thoin," Edythe hissed and moved to walk away,not dreaming for a second that he would know Gaelic and understand what she meant. "Bauchle," Tyr chirped back in retaliation. Edythe spun around, her jaw open, but before she could retort, he added, this time with a Scottish brogue, "Ed,even if I didn't know my own language, certain words are known far and wide, and "ass" is certainly one of them." Straightening, she puffed out her chest and poked him in the ribs. "I may be many things,but untidy, fat, and your wife isn't one of them." Tyr gulped.It had been a long time since he'd spoken his native tongue to a woman who knew Gaelic and he plucked the wrong insult from memory.He had just remembered it being about a woman and knew it wasn't flattering. "You're right. My apologies.But you,my pretty lady, are in desperate need of a nickname. How about one that is more fitting?" "I don't want a nickname," she gritted out. And certainly not one from you, she hissed to herself. Why did he have to call her pretty? And why did she care? "Well,Ruadh,you got one." "Red? Lord,you are the most unimaginative-" "Hmm,when you put it that way...Red...Ed. Quite memorable and easy to say.I like it!" "You would.That nickname-if you can call it that-wouldn't suit a kitchen rat." Tyr shook his head. "I disagree,and just remember that it was you and not I who compared yourself to such a repulsive creature.I would have said...a finch.Yes...small,loud and with a sharp beak.

Ode to the Snuff Box This is a Gaelic poem in praise of a snuff box that was originally printed in 1780 but may be older. Fàilt’ ort fhéin, a bhogais ’S do chleite mhath maille riut: Tombàca math biorach donn Chuireas braim á gearran. Air a lomadh, air a phronnadh, Air a chur ri teine; Seachnaidh e an t-sròn ’S ruigidh e an t-eanchainn; Bheir e an t-anam ’s a’ chaillich A chaill e bho chionn seachd bliadhna. Chan eil airc fuail na tionndadh bramaich No gnè galair tha ’n aorabh duine Nach cuir e ás a dheòin no a dh’aindeoin. Seo ort, a shròn, Freagair, a thòn! Math am pliobairnich, snaoisean – Amen, a bhogsa. Welcome to you, O box And your good powder along with you: Good, sharp, brown tobacco Which causes a workhorse to fart. Stripped, crushed and roasted: It will sidestep the nose And reach the brain: It will revive the spirit of the old woman Who lost it seven years previous. There is no disease of the blood Or repeated swelling Or any nature of sickness In a person’s constitution That it will not destroy With or without its co-operation. This is for you, O nose, Make your response, O buttocks! Snuff is great stuff – Amen, O box.

Nuair a bhagras an nàmhaid, Air a' Ghàidheal a dh'éighear - Bidh gach morair is iarla Guidhe dian leibh gu éirigh, Bidh sibh measail aig diùcan 'S bheir an Crùn a chuid fhéin dhuibh; Ach nuair cheanglar an t-sith leibh Cha bhi cuimhn' air bhur feum dhaibh, Cha bhi cuimhn' air mar smàladh Thar sàl do thìr chéin sibh, Mar chaidh fearann a dhiùltadh 'S mar a chum iad na féidh bhuaibh, Mar a chu iad an t-iasg bhuaibh Agus ianlaith nan speuran. When the enemy threaten, It's the Gael who is called - Each earl and each lord Implores you to rise, Dukes show you respect And the Crown gives you its share; But when peace is secured by you They'll forget how you served them, They'll forget you were banished Far over the sea, And how land was refused And they forbade you the deer, And forbade you the fish And the birds of the air. - Ruairidh MacAoidh

It’s only for a day, mo chridhe,” Ewan said, and she heard that he, too, struggled to accept their parting, however short. He led the bay mare. She was loaded with the initialed leather luggage that had doomed his halfhearted attempt to play plain Mr. Smith. Around them, the world was fresh and fragrant and newly washed. The sun crept above the horizon, thickening the light under the trees. The air was cold, but smelled of spring. “You never told me what that means,” she said, knowing he should go, yet not ready to say goodbye. The tenderness in his smile squished her heart into a ball of sentimental goo. “Aye, I did.” “When?” She was sure she’d remember if he had. She intended to remember every detail of the last two days until her dying breath. The faint glint in his eyes, visible even through the gloom, hinted at teasing. “I’m devastated that you’ve forgotten so fast, lassie.” “Tell me,” she said, fighting the urge to fling herself against him and beg him not to go, scandal be hanged. “Why, it means ‘my heart,’ and you already know that’s true.” “Oh.” Tears misted her vision. She’d become disgustingly weepy since she’d met Lord Lyle. “I’ll have to teach you the Gaelic, if you’re going to be a proper Scotswoman.” She strove to match his lightness. “I’m not sure how useful it will be. I can’t run around calling your crofters my heart.” “It will be devilish useful when you talk to the laird, my darling.” She

If he is strong, then we’ll have to be quick and clever,” she said in a cheerful tone.”A bit of trickery may be needed as well.” “Ach, ye sound like a Highlander,” he said. “In Gaelic we say, an ten ach mbionn laidir ni follair do bheith glic.” He who is not strong must be cunning.

Gaelic ritual also moved eastwards and Gaelic bards remembered its atmosphere. The place name of Scone is itself a memory of ancient ceremony. Bards sang of Scoine Sciath-Airde, ‘Scone of the High Shields’, probably a reference to the habit of warriors raising up a new king on their shields. As this precarious rite proceeded, another bardic name added a soundtrack. Scoine Sciath-Bhinne means ‘Scone of the Singing Shields’, the shouts and chants of acclamation as lords and warriors roared approval and support for the king raised on the high shields. Here is what John of Hexham wrote about the coronation of Malcolm IV in 1153: ‘and so all the people of the land, raising up Malcolm, son of Earl Henry, King David’s son (a boy still only 12 years old), established him as king at Scone (as is the custom of the Scottish nation).

Do you know the meaning of the Gaelic insult ‘bonny’? Lord Thorne insists on using it to address me, and I’d like to find a comparable offense.” It was Mena’s turn to be astonished, as it took her a full minute to recover her wits. “Well, Miss Ross, ‘bonny’ is certainly a Scottish word, but it is more endearment than insult.” “You sure?” “I’m quite positive,” she insisted with a secret smile. “You see, ‘bonny’ is the Gaelic word for beauty.” *

Coorie 1. The Scottish art of of deriving comfort, wellbeing and energy from wild landscapes and convivial interiors. 2. "A hug of a word" Informal an affectionate nestle into a loved one See Also the old Gaelic cosagach "snug or cosy

Isn’t language the backbone of cultural identity? Should I not be able to speak Scottish Gaelic, or at least speak freely in my Scots brogue?

It tipped "cosagach" , similar to coorie, as a trend. The Gaelic word loosely translates to mean cosy; the tourist board encourages visitors staying in Highland log cabins to get comfy beside a roaring fire with a book, a hot toddy and good friends.

The language follows the third most common word order of languages, the verb-subject-object word order, like Irish and Scottish Gaelic. Hawaiian also employs different forms of the word “we,” distinguishing between the “inclusive we” that includes the person being spoken to and the “exclusive we” that excludes the person being spoken to.

Since the eighteenth century, the Celtic fringes have posed for the urban intellectual as a location of the wild, the natural, the creative and the insecure. We can often find it said, with warm approval, that the Celts are impetuous, natural, spiritual and naive. I try in what follows to make a clear that such an approval is drawing on the same system of structural oppositions as is the accusation that the Celt is violent (impetuous), animal (natural), devoid of any sense of property (spiritual), or without manners (naive). I include the bracketed terms as effective synonyms of the words that precede them, that we would use to praise rather than deride... We are dealing here with a rich verbal and metaphorical complex, and I have not thought it very important to distinguish between those who find a favourable opinion of the Gael within this complex, and those who dip into it to find the materials for derision. In both cases the coherence of the statements can only be found at their point of origin, the urban intellectual discourse of the English language, and not at their point of application, the Celt, the Gael, the primative who is ever departing, whether his exit be made to jeers or to tears.

They ask of me only to weep repentance for a sin that does not concern me and I shall get in return an alien freedom I don’t understand: to be drubbed in one thin, wounding water after another of their philosophy - and confidently they would hang their washing in the heavens.

I knew how you liked long tales," he said, giving her a wink. "There's sure to be plenty of those." "In Gaelic," she said. "All the better for learning it.

Jamie Fraser looked across the field to where Twelvetrees stood with his two companions, then looked soberly down at Grey. “He must not live. Ye may trust me to see to that.” “If he kills me, you mean,” Grey said. The electricity that ran in little jolts through his veins had settled now to a fine constant hum. He could hear his heartbeat, thumping in his ears, fast and strong. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Fraser.” To his astonishment, Fraser smiled at him. “It will be my pleasure to avenge ye, my lord. If necessary.” “Call me John,” he blurted. “Please.” The Scot’s face went blank with his own astonishment. He cast down his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he put a hand solidly on Grey’s shoulder and said something softly in the Gaelic, but in the midst of the odd, sibilant words, Grey thought he heard his father’s name. Iain mac Gerard … was that him? The hand lifted, leaving the feel of its weight behind. “What—” he said, but Fraser interrupted him. “It is the blessing for a warrior going out. The blessing of Michael of the Red Domain.” His eyes met Grey’s squarely, a darker blue than the dawning sky. “May the grace of Michael Archangel strengthen your arm … John.

Let’s talk about where meditation and mindfulness practice lead. Imagine, if you will, one of those thirteenth-century Scottish fight scenes with Mel Gibson. The untrained and distracted mind is a melee of broadswords, hideous grimaces, war cries, people’s heads flying off. As we practice returning to the breath, we slowly build up the necessary stability in awareness to notice this battle that we’ve been waging with ourselves. We recognize, we accept. We remember. Very slowly, the internal thugs get disarmed. Eventually they’re gathered in a circle, drinking mead and hiccupping and singing weepy Gaelic ballads. A great calm descends upon the land. So that’s one part of it. The other is we start to notice and appreciate the gorgeous green highland scenery that these idiots have been standing in front of the whole time.

About 180m (590 ft.) offshore is Kidston Island , owned by the town of Baddeck. It has a wonderful sand beach with lifeguards (sometimes—check with the visitor center) and an old lighthouse to explore. A shuttle service comes and goes, so check with the visitor center. The lovely Uisge Ban Falls (that’s Gaelic for “white water”) is the reward at the end of a 3km (1.8-mile) hike. The falls cascades 16m (52 ft.) down a rock face; the hike is through hardwood forest of maple, birch, and beech. Ask for a map at the visit center. Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site HISTORIC SITE   Each summer for much of his life, Alexander Graham Bell—of Scottish descent, but his family emigrated to Canada when he was young—fled the heat and humidity of Washington, D.C., for this hillside retreat perched above Bras d’Or Lake. The mansion, still owned and occupied by

The Britons called the invaders the Saesneg, as the English are today called by their neighbors to the west (in Scottish Gaelic it is Sassenach and in Cornish Sowsnek). They in turn referred to the natives as Welsh, which has a variety of meanings but none of them particularly positive, either “slave,” “foreigner” or “dark stranger” (likewise the French-speaking Belgians are called Walloons and Wallachia in Romania has the same etymology, while Cornwall, Walsall, and Walthamstow in London probably all come from Wal). The Welsh, or Cymraeg, referred to the neighboring country as “Lloegyr,” literally “the lost lands.

However, the invocation of the Devil’s name in Isobel’s verbal charms can be explained by a combination of two theories. The first being that this was the Folk Devil, fairy characters viewed by clergy as their Devil or "wee devils. The second theory being that Isobel was calling upon the biblical Devil to aid in harmful magic. In Scotland, unlike some other countries in the British Isles, most of the accounts where accused witches laid claim that their powers or charms were given unto them by the ‘gude nichtbouries’, or fairies than “muckle black deil”, or the devil-like their other Celtic neighbours. The 19th-century anthropologist Andrew Lang stated that witches who suffered at Presbyterian hands were merely narrators of fairy stories who trafficked with the dead (or fairies) and from them won medicinal recipes for cures. In Scotland, the fairy-faith has always been a strong backbone in the animistic beliefs of the people, especially in the gaidhealtachd or Gaelic-speaking areas of Scotland where they are called the sìth, sleagh maith or daoine beaga. In fact, during the whole witch-craze, which spread across Scotland, the Gaelic areas to the west had fewer accounts of people being charged with witchcraft. All classes of society during Isobel’s time held belief in the fairies, most with great fear but others were concerned with the gifts the fairies could bestow or teach.

It is not long since some families lived in Galloway who spoke Gaelic: so it will be found, the greater part of the names of farms, waters, parishes come from that language. But why treat of this further?

You are a fine dancer, Dubh Burton.” I smile, giving her a soft kiss on her cheek. “And you are flourishing like a flower, mo chreach. You’ve embraced your darkness, and my, it is beautiful.

It’s just you and me,” he groans. “You’re mine now, mo chreach bheag. I am never letting you go.

You are a kind soul, mo chreach bheag. I hate to think that you have been lonely for most of your life, when all you deserved was the world.

Last night was the best night of my life, mo chreach bheag.