The Celtic
world spread over a large territory, from central Europe to Spain to the
British Isles. Celtic culture originated in the Iron Age and continues to this
day in places such as Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and Brittany.
The Romans,
in particular, wrote about the Celts because their armed forces invaded Celtic
territory and enslaved the Celtic people. Most Celts had been absorbed into the
Roman Empire by the 1st century C.E. By 500 C.E., Celtic culture was
confined to Brittany and the British Isles. Because of their commonly-held
language and traditions, these Celts stood out from other cultures and became
the historical model for Celtic culture.
Celtic women
were protected throughout their lives: first, by their fathers; secondly, by
their husbands; and lastly, by their sons. But Celtic women were not weak and
dependent creatures. They were highly regarded as daughters, wives, mothers,
and warriors, if the need arose. They were expected to give good counsel, keep
their households in good order, and remain virtuous and loyal to husband,
family, and tribe.
Queen
Boudicca
The best
historical example of a fierce Celtic woman is Queen Boudicca of the Iceni
tribe, who reigned in the East Anglia region of Britain. In 60 C.E., she led
a revolt against the Romans. Bravely driving a chariot against Roman forces,
she fought for the liberation of her tribe and vengeance for the rape of her
two daughters by Roman soldiers. Although defeated, she went down in history as
a British folk hero.
The
Old Hag of Beara
The Old Hag
of Beara is a legendary Irish Cailleach (divine crone) whose story
originated in the Beara Peninsula in County Cork, Ireland. She represented a
woman’s life cycle. In her youth, she was the consort of kings, toasting the
king and giving sage advice to her royal lover. As an ugly old crone, she sits
on the Beara Peninsula as a pile of stones, wielding power over the wind and
sea. She has been associated with the coming of winter.
The
Old Woman of Beare Poem
It
is of Corca Dubhne she was, and she had her youth seven times over, and every
man that had lived with her died of old age, and her grandsons and
great-grandsons were tribes and races.
And
through a hundred years she wore upon her head the veil Cuimire had blessed.
Then age and weakness came upon her and it is what she said:
Ebb-tide
to me as to the sea; old age brings me reproach; I used to wear a shift that
was always new; to-day, I have not even a cast one.
It
is riches you are loving, it is not men; it was men we loved in the time we
were living.
There
were dear men on whose plains we used to be driving; it is
good the time we passed with them; it is little we were broken afterwards.
When
my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; once they used to be fondling,
they used to be around great kings.
The
young girls give a welcome to Beltaine when it comes to them; sorrow is more
fitting for me; an old pitiful hag.
I
have no pleasant talk; no sheep are killed for my wedding; it is little but my
hair is grey; it is many colours I had over it when I used to be drinking good
ale.
I
have no envy against the old, but only against women; I myself am spent with
old age, while women's heads are still yellow.
The
stone of the kings on Feman; the chair of Ronan in Bregia; it is long since
storms have wrecked them, they are old mouldering gravestones.
The
wave of the great sea is speaking; the winter is striking us with it; I do not
look to welcome to-day Fermuid son of Mugh.
I
know what they are doing; they are rowing through the reeds of the ford of
Alma; it is cold is the place where they sleep.
The
summer of youth where we were has been spent along with its harvest; winter age
that drowns everyone, its beginning has come upon me.
It
is beautiful was my green cloak, my king liked to see it on me; it is noble was
the man that stirred it, he put wool on it when it was bare.
Amen,
great is the pity; every acorn has to drop. After feasting with shining
candles, to be in the darkness of a prayer-house.
I
was once living with kings, drinking mead and wine; to-day I am drinking
whey-water among withered old women.
There
are three floods that come up to the dun of Ard-Ruide: a flood of fighting-men,
a flood of horses, a flood of the hounds of Lugaidh's son.
The
flood-wave and the two swift ebb-tides; what the flood-wave
brings you in, the ebb-wave sweeps out of your hand.
The
flood-wave and the second ebb-tide; they have all come as far as me, the way
that I know them well.
The
flood-tide will not reach to the silence of my kitchen; though many are my
company in the darkness, a hand has been laid upon them all.
My
flood-tide! It is well I have kept my knowledge. It is Jesus Son of Mary keeps
me happy at the ebb-tide.
It
is far is the island of the great sea where the flood reaches after the ebb: I
do not look for floods to reach to me after the ebb-tide.
There
is hardly a little place I can know again when I see it; what used to be on the
flood-tide is all on the ebb to-day!
From
The Kiltartan Poetry Book by Lady Augusta Persse Gregory, 1919.
Dawn
Pisturino
August
24, 2021
Copyright
2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
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