smokingboot

Back in 16th century Scotland, if you were staying at a friend's house, it was considered courteous to regale your host with stories, songs, and poems. Here's one attributed to Iseabail Ní Mheic Cailéin, Countess of Argyll, recounted during her stay at the house of James MacGregor in Perthshire, 1510. I write the Gaelic version here because I love the look of the words, and I place the English version behind the cut as it's naughty.

Éistibh a luchd an tighe-se
re scél na mbod brioghmhar
do shanntaich mo chridhe-sa
cuid dana scéalaibh do sgriobhadh.
Cé líonmhor bod bréagh-bhileach
do bhí san aimsir romhainn
tá aig fear an úird chrábhaidh seo
bod as cho mór righinn.
Bod mo shagairt thuarasdail
cé tá cho fada seasmhach
o tha céin ní chualabhair
an reabh atá ina mhacan.
Atá a riabh ro-reamhar
an sin ’s ní h-é scéal bréagach
nocha chuala cho-reamhar
mhotha bhod arís.
Éistibh!

Which translates as:

Listen, everyone in the house,
to the tales that have been written
of the energetic cocks
with which my heart is smitten.
Forget the fine-lipped cocks
so plentiful in the past:
this man of holy orders
has a cock at least as vast.
The cock of my salaried priest
is not only lasting and long;
you won’t have heard, in ages,
of such a wide dong.
It has always been this thick –
I promise these aren’t lies –
you’ll never again hear of a cock
comparable in size.
Listen!

I like that call to attend, it reminds me of the first line of Beowulf ('Hwæt!') 800 years between them, and still the bard yells to get the room's attention. And as Beowulf starts with the glory of spear-Danes, and Iseabail starts with the glory of other kinds of spears, I think we can see who's winning from the off.

Wouldn't be up for bagpipes after this though.