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Leabhar Gníomhaíochta

3 6 4 3

I r i s h P h r a s e s &

P l a c e N a m e s

I r i s h M y t h s & L e g e n d s

L e a r n i n g I r i s h

T h r o u g h C o l o u r s

Irish Phrases & Place Names

Irish Phrase of the Day

D i a d h u i t

Pronounced gia-ditch

Hello. One of the most common phrases in Irish is Dia duit. This phrase is used in much the same way as the English word 'hello', but is more literally translated as 'God bless you'.

C a d i s a i n m d u i t ?

Pronounced kuhd is a-nim dit

What is your name?

C o n a s a t á t ú ?

Pronounced kun-us a-taw-too

How are you?

G o r a i b h m a i t h a g a t

Pronounced guh-rev-ma-a-gut

Thank you

M o c h a r a

Pronounced muh-khara

My friend

I s m i s e

Pronounced is-mish-uh

My name is

L e d o t h o i l

Pronounced leh-duh-hoil

Please

S l á n

Pronounced slawn

Goodbye

M o g h r á

Pronounced muh-graw

My love

C é a d m í l e f á i l t e

Pronounced Kade-Mila-Falcha

"A hundred thousand welcomes" This phrase is used as a way to welcome people warmly and to reflect the Irish hospitality.

S l á i n t e

Pronounced slan-che

Translating to 'Good Health' in English, sláinte is an Irish expression that derives from the Old Irish word slán, meaning "healthy" or "safe". It can be used in different contexts, but is most often used as a toast or cheers. B e a l a c h C l á i r

Places

Town name Ballyclare comes from the Irish name Bealach Cláir which means meaning "pass of the plain".

C r o m g h l i n n

The village of Crumlin comes from the Irish word Cromghlinn, which means "crooked glen".

The name of the townland Glengormley is derived from the Irish Gleann Ghormlaithe meaning "Gormlaith's valley".

A o n t r o i m

Pronounced Ayn-trim

The town (and county) name Antrim is derived from the Irish "Aontroim," meaning "Lone Ridge" referring to the solitary hills or ridges found in the region.

Irish myths & legends

Introduction

This selection of the best loved Irish legends are enjoyed by children from generation to generation. It includes some of the classic myths and legends of Irish folklore. The stories of love, magic, mystery and mayhem will enchant and entertain children of all ages. They have been told for hundreds of years and are part of Irish history, culture and language.

Children of Lir

Once upon a time, long ago in Ireland, there was a great king named Lir. He had four much-loved children: a daughter named Fionnuala, a son named Aodh, and twin boys named Fiachra and Conn.

The children were happy and kind, and their laughter filled the castle halls. But when the twins were still very small, a great sadness fell upon the family. Their mother, Aobh, became very ill and passed away. King Lir and his children were heartbroken. They missed her gentle voice, her bedtime songs, and the warm hugs she gave so freely. The castle no longer felt the same without her.

After some time, the king decided that his children needed someone to care for them. He married again. His new wife was named Aoife. She was beautiful to look at - but she did not have a kind heart.

At first, Aoife tried to be pleasant. But as she watched King Lir play with his children and shower them with love, jealousy began to grow inside her. She wanted the king’s love all to herself. The more she thought about it, the more her jealousy grew, until it turned into something dark and cruel.

Near the castle lay a beautiful lake, sparkling like silver in the sunlight. The children loved to swim and play there. One bright day, Aoife brought them to the water’s edge.

“Go and play,” she said with a tight smile.

As the children laughed and splashed in the water, Aoife stepped forward. She lifted a magic wand and whispered a powerful spell. Suddenly, there was a flash of light that shone across the lake.

When the light faded, the children were gone.

In their place floated four beautiful white swans.

The swans flapped their wings in confusion.

“What has happened to us?” cried Fionnuala.

Aoife’s voice rang out coldly. “I have turned you into swans. For nine hundred years you shall remain this way. Three hundred years on this lake, three hundred years on the cold Sea of Moyle, and three hundred years on the Isle of Glora. Only the sound of a church bell can break the spell.”

“Why would you do this?” the children cried.

“Because I want your father’s love for myself,” Aoife replied, and she turned away.

When the children did not return home, King Lir grew worried. He searched the castle and the grounds, calling their names.

“Fionnuala? Aodh? Fiachra? Conn? Where are you?”

“Father! We are here!” came a voice from the lake.

King Lir hurried to the water. Four swans swam toward him, and to his amazement, they spoke.

“Father, it is us. Aoife has cast a terrible spell upon us.”

The king was filled with sorrow and anger. He rushed back to the castle and demanded that Aoife undo her magic. But she refused. Seeing her cruelty at last, King Lir banished her from the kingdom forever.

The king searched far and wide for someone who could break the spell, but Aoife’s magic was too strong. No one could help.

So, King Lir spent his days by the lake with his children. He spoke to them, listened to their sweet songs, and told them stories just as he 9

had when they were small. And there he stayed until he grew old and passed away.

The swan-children were heartbroken once more.

After three hundred long years, the time came for them to leave their father’s lake. With heavy hearts, they spread their wings and flew to the Sea of Moyle.

The sea was cold and stormy. Fierce winds battered their wings, and icy waves crashed around them. Food was scarce, and many nights they huddled close together for warmth, with brave Fionnuala spreading her wings to shelter her brothers.

At last, after three hundred years, they flew again this time to the Isle of Glora. The air was softer there, and there was plenty to eat. But though the land was gentler, they were still lonely. They longed for their father and for the happy days of long ago.

Slowly, the final years passed.

Then one quiet morning, they heard a sound they had waited nine hundred years to hear.

It was the clear, bright ringing of a church bell.

Old and weary, the swans swam toward the sound as quickly as they could. On the shore stood a small church, and from its doorway came a kind old monk named Caomhóg.

He stared in wonder as the swans spoke to him in gentle voices. Fionnuala told him their long, sad story.

“You have suffered greatly,” Caomhóg said kindly. “Stay here with me. I will care for you.”

As the church bell rang out once more, a warm golden light

surrounded the swans. The spell was breaking at last.

Slowly, their white feathers faded. Their wings changed into arms once more. And standing where the swans had been were four very old, frail people. The long years had finally caught up with them.

They were no longer children but they were free.

Fionnuala took her brothers’ hands.

“We are together,” she whispered.

And at last, after nine hundred years, the Children of Lir found peace. That night, Caomhóg dreamt that he saw four swans flying up through the clouds. He knew that the children of Lir were now safe and with their mother and father.

“ D a t h a í m i s ! ” L e t ’ s C o l o u r !

h i l d r e n o f L i r

Setanta - Cú Chulainn

Long, long ago in ancient Ireland, there was a boy named Setanta. He was seven years old, clever, brave, and full of energy. Setanta dreamed of becoming one of the famous Red Branch Knights of Ulster, the greatest warriors in all of Ireland.

One evening, Setanta’s father, the king of Dundalk, told him a story. “Setanta,” he said, “your uncle is Conor mac Nessa, the mighty king of Ulster. He lives in a great fort near the town of Armagh and is in charge of the Macra - a special school for boys who are training to become brave warriors. One day, if you are ready, you may join the Macra and learn to be a hero like the Red Branch Knights.”

Setanta’s eyes shone with excitement. “Oh, father! Please, may I go to the Macra now?” he begged.

“You are far too young, my son,” his father replied. “You must wait a few more years before you can travel there.”

But Setanta could not wait. One bright morning, he set off on the long journey to Armagh. He carried his hurley and sliotar, the stick and ball he loved to play with. As he walked, he hit the sliotar high into the air, running forward to catch it on his hurley stick before it touched the ground.

When Setanta reached Armagh, he came to the great fort of his uncle, Conor mac Nessa, a mighty king of Ulster. Outside the castle, Setanta saw one hundred and fifty boys of the Macra gathered in the courtyard. Some were playing hurling, Setanta’s favourite game. Without hesitation, he ran forward to join in.

Almost at once, Setanta scored a brilliant goal. The other boys were furious that a young boy had joined their game without asking. They ran toward him, waving sticks and shouting.

But Setanta was clever and quick. He grabbed a shield, deflecting the blows as if he were faster than an arrow. The boys charged again, but Setanta was quicker, braver, and more agile than any of them.

The noise and commotion reached the castle, and King Conor came out to see what was happening.

“What on earth is all this racket about?” he demanded.

“I am Setanta, son of the King of Dundalk,” Setanta replied boldly. “I am your nephew. I have come all this way to join the Macra because I want to be a great warrior one day.

King Conor looked at the brave young boy and smiled. “Then you are worthy indeed. It would be an honour to have you, my nephew,” he said, welcoming Setanta into the Macra.

From that day, Setanta trained with the other boys, learning the skills of a great warrior. But he also showed them that courage, cleverness, and kindness were just as important as strength.

As Setanta grew bigger and stronger, King Conor invited him to a feast at the house of Culann, the blacksmith. Culann had a fierce guard dog that protected his home, and he was very proud of it.

Setanta arrived early, before the dog had been fed. The dog leapt out of the gate and barked ferociously. It charged straight at Setanta, snapping its jaws. Most boys would have run away, but Setanta was clever and fearless.

He had nothing to defend himself with except his hurley and his sliotar, but that was enough. As the dog lunged, Setanta swung his hurley in a wide, careful arc, tapping the dog firmly to keep it at a distance. When the dog tried to bite, he struck the sliotar against the ground, bouncing it to distract the dog.

The dog circled him, snapping and growling, trying to find a way in.

But Setanta was quicker than the dog’s fastest moves. He dodged, leapt, and twirled, striking with his hurley and the sliotar just enough to keep the dog from touching him.

Finally, breathing hard but steady, Setanta stood his ground. “I mean no harm,” he said calmly. “But you cannot guard this house while you are hungry. I will take your place until another guard can be trained.”

Culann rushed out and saw the scene. He could hardly believe his eyes. His dog, one of the fiercest in all Ulster, had been held at bay by a small boy using nothing but his cleverness, his hurley, and his sliotar.

From that day on, everyone began to call Setanta Cúchulainn, which means “Hound of Culann.” He had earned a name to match his bravery.

As Cúchulainn grew, he became famous throughout Ulster for his strength, clever mind, and courage. But he never forgot the lessons he had learned as a boy: that true heroes are brave, clever, and kind.

Setanta

Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Giant from Scotland

Many years ago, in a castle in Antrim, lived the most famous warrior of all. His name was Fionn Mac Cumhaill, and he lived there with his wife, Una.

Fionn was the wisest and bravest man in the land. It was said he had the strength of five hundred men, and his voice could be heard for miles around.

Across the sea in Scotland lived a giant named Benandonner. He had heard stories of Fionn’s great strength.

“If stories about him are travelling across the sea,” thought Benandonner, “he must be very great indeed. This will not do! I must defeat Fionn in combat so there is no doubt about who is the greater giant.”

Benandonner was a tremendous giant. He was as tall as an oak tree and his arms were as thick as tree trunks. His hands could crush stone. He was as broad as a house and as wild and fierce as the ocean. All of Scotland feared him.

One day, a stranger arrived at Fionn’s door - a messenger from Scotland.

“I bring a challenge from the mighty Benandonner,” said the messenger. “He is the tallest, strongest and most fearsome giant in Scotland. He has heard about your great strength and wants to fight you. He has beaten all the other giants. You are the only one remaining. Do you accept the challenge?”

“Of course I accept,” said Fionn bravely. “I will begin to prepare immediately.”

And so, he did.

From that day on, Fionn worked hard. He began to build a path across the sea to Scotland. It was a most unusual causeway, made up of hundreds of thousands of black rocks, all different shapes and sizes. Some rocks had six sides; others had more than ten.

Before long, the causeway stretched miles into the sea.

One evening, when Fionn returned home from working on the path, he noticed that Una looked worried.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh Fionn,” she replied, “I heard some troubling news today. I heard that Benandonner is much bigger than you - and even stronger.”

Fionn grew thoughtful.

“If I cannot beat him with strength alone,” he said, “then we must think of a plan. I may not be as big or as strong as he is, but together we are much cleverer.”

Fionn and Una talked late into the night. They thought of many ideas. At last, Una came up with a cunning plan.

For the next two days, Una worked busily. She cut and snipped, sewed and knitted.

“Imagine sewing and knitting at a time like this!” Fionn exclaimed. “I thought you had a plan!”

“Look carefully,” said Una. “What do you see?”

“Clothes,” said Fionn slowly. “Very peculiar clothes.”

“Never mind that,” said Una firmly. “Just put them on.”

And what a sight Fionn was! He wore a long dress, soft booties on his feet, and on his head, Una placed a beautifully knitted bonnet.

“While you were working on the causeway,” said Una, “I asked Fergus to make a very large cradle. In you get - we have no time to lose!”

Soon, Benandonner was approaching. As he walked, the ground shook beneath his feet.

“Where is the mighty Fionn?” the giant roared. “I have travelled all the way from Scotland to find him!”

Una stepped outside calmly.

“Please come in,” she said sweetly. “You are very welcome. Fionn is out hunting and will not be long. But please, sir, could you speak a little more softly? Our baby is asleep.”

“Your… baby?” Benandonner gasped.

“Yes,” said Una. “He’s rather small now, but he will grow.”

Benandonner peered inside - and nearly fell backwards in shock.

There, lying in a cradle, was the biggest baby he had ever seen!

“If this is Fionn’s small baby,” he thought nervously, “what size must Fionn himself be? He must be enormous!”

Suddenly, Benandonner did not feel quite so brave.

Without another word, he hurried out of the house and began racing back across the causeway toward Scotland. As he ran, he glanced behind him.

“What if Fionn is following me?” he worried.

To make sure he would not be chased, Benandonner began pulling up stones from the path and throwing them into the sea. By the time he reached Scotland, almost the entire causeway was gone.

All that remained was a stretch of strange black stones along the coast of Antrim.

And to this very day, that is what we call the Giant’s Causeway.