So, we’ve covered two out of the alleged “daichead lí den dath “green” – “glas” and “uaine.” Well, three, if we count “glasuaine” (vivid green). Oh, and yes, we’re still on “sos” (break) from the irregular verbs. I haven’t forgotten them and am actually “ar bís” to get back to them, since I just love all those root changes, combined with séimhiú and urú. But Seachtain Fhéile Pádraig gives us a well-deserved chance ár scíth a ligean.
But in a way, we’re just going “ó theach an diabhail go teach an deamhain” (loosely equivalent to “out of the frying pan, into the fire,” see below for the literal). Talking about color in Irish, or comparatively from language to language (and occasionally from wife to husband on those infamous curtain-buying trips) is very complex. Just for a wee greadóigín, keep in mind that in Irish:
a) there are two main words for red (plus a slew more when you really get into it), namely “dearg” and “rua,”
b) “dubh” means “black” or “black-haired” but a black person (African, African-American, etc.) is “gorm” (blue), and,
c) many things are “buí” (yellow) which English speakers would typically describe as “orange,” such as the “péacán buí” (orange-lily), and that’s a topic for a month’s worth of blaganna.
And like I said, that’s just for starters.
Anyway, back to those “ocht lí is tríocha”. Here are a few more “green” phrases in Irish. And also a few red flags (words that look like they contain “glas” or “uaine” but have nothing to do with green).
Glas: geamhar glas (green corn, or braird, which you know all about now, right); fód glas, the greensward; and “Is glas iad na cnoic i bhfad uainn (far-off hills are green).
And for shades of green:
ar ghlaise na sáiste, sage-green (ex. “Tá an blús ar ghlaise na sáiste” (v. lit. “the blouse is “on” the greenness of sage”).
ar ghlaise na holóige, olive-green (ex. “Tá an blús ar ghlaise na holóige,” v. lit. “the blouse is “on” the greenness of the olive”).
Don’t be misled by the completely unrelated word “glas” (a lock), as in “Tá an doras faoi ghlas” (the door is locked).
As for “uaine,” here are a few more examples:
Bhí dath na huaine ar an splangadán (the sickly creature was green in the face, lit. “the color of green was on the sickly creature,” the “face” part being implied)
In very specific hues, like Brunswick and zinc chrome: uaine Brunswick and uaine cróim since.
And a few caveats. Intriguing though the idea might be, “uaineoil” has nothing to do with greenness. It’s from “uan” (lamb) and “feoil” (meat), with the underlying form “uainfheoil,” which also shows vowel harmony. But then, if you covered it with enough “anlann miontais,” maybe it would pass muster (should you ever want it to!). Sorry, Sam! Úúps, that was “ham” anyway, not “lamb.” And come to think of it, does “green eggs and ham” mean both the ham and the eggs were green, or just the eggs?
Also, be careful with “uaineadh” (interval between showers) and “uaineach” (intermittent), both from “uain” (an interval of time).
Nóta: Ó theach an diabhail: There’s always a teachable moment. We’re really talking about shades of green, of course, but since the seanfhocal lept to mind, we can talk about an tuiseal ginideach for “just a wee bomaite,” (that one’s for you, a Shóisir!). “Diabhal” is “devil” but it becomes “diabhail” to show possession, errmm, that is ownership, not possession à la “An tEacsaircistí” (The Exorcist). Although perhaps, if I’m lucky, my “rámhaillíní cainte” might set your head ar casadh. In the sense of having “do radharc bainte as do shúile” (being dazzled), that is, ní de réir bunbhrí an fhocail.
Anyway, ar ais ar an ráille, “deamhan” is demon, becoming “deamhain” for “an tuiseal ginideach.”
“Teach” (house), here, has séimhiú since it follows the preposition “ó” (out of). So we have, “out of the devil’s house into the demon’s house.” No real mention of friochtáin or tinte, but the idea is the same. Five shades down, thirty-five to go!
