of samain given in all the old Irish authorities, and believed in apparently by O’Donovan. If not, it is time somebody did. ‘Samfuin’ or ‘summer-end’ will not do. Nothing but confusion springs from making fuin a part of this word samain. Whatever may be said of fuin—whether it is a genuine Irish word or not—as a matter of fact, samain never was the end of summer, even in its later and restricted sense it meant November, which was the first month of winter, and Lá Saṁna, or November-day, is still with us the first of winter. This is one reason why samain cannot be ‘samfuin’—now or some others. Samain exists in Welsh, and (like sam and gam) seems to have been common to all the Celts before they separated. As sam with the Welsh became hâf, so samain survived with them in the form hefin, corresponding with our word exactly, and observing the law of caol le caol, which exists to a considerable extent even in Welsh. But it does not mean winter in Welsh, nor November, it means the summer-time, though rarer than hâf and perhaps now obsolete. In the compounds, Cyntefin and Mehefin, the word plainly means summer. Cyntefin is an ancient and poetical name for May—now they use Mai—and clearly means cynt-hefin or first-summer. We have this very same word for May (as well as Bealtaine), viz., the O. Ir. céttemain = cét-samain (first summer), used in the beautiful poem on the May time attributed to Fionn son of Cumhall (in the Mac-gnímarṫa Finn), and in other old Irish writings, reduced in later times to the form céideaṁ (O’Donovan’s Irish Grammar, p. 97), but in the Highlands to Céitein, which is used as much as Bealtaine. So the Welsh Mehefin (June) is plainly ‘Medd-hefin’ = mid-summer, and the Irish Meiṫeaṁ (June) = med-sem = med-sam, or mid-summer. In middle Irish we find Meṫemin and Miṫemin (as in Mac Con-glinne’s Vision), but the forms céideaṁ and meiṫeaṁ do not necessarily imply that any syllable has been lost, but may represent older forms, céittem and meṫem (for cét-sam and med-sam respectively), before the extra syllable was assumed.
What then is saṁain or hefin? A comparison with saṁraḋ and saṁfuċt would lead us to think it probably meant the same thing, and was a similar formation. This is what I believe it is—nothing more nor less than sam-ṡín (in Welsh, hâf-hîn) = summer-wea;her or sun-weather, the O. Ir. sin (now síon) and Welsh hîn, meaning weather in general. The s of sín being aspirated. would easily disappear in composition, just as it has disappeared from saṁail (like) in such words as flaṫ-aṁail, gean-aṁail, ⁊c. The shortening of a vowel is common in Irish compounds, cf. gráḋṁar for grád-már or grád-mór, imrim for im-réim, ⁊c. The slender vowel of hîn caused the caol le caol in Welsh, so we have hefin, but in Irish the first syllable ruled the second, and so an a was inserted for leaṫan le leaṫan and sam-ín became sam-ain.
This, I hope, is a more rational and consistent explanation of samain than the old one. But how did the word come to mean winter, or rather November? I believe that Lá Saṁna was a corruption of Lá Gaṁna = winter-day, or first day of winter, but as gaṁain also meant a calf the name became disused, samain also gave way to samrad in the old sense of summer, and while people forgot the real meaning of the word, a sufficient memory of its force remained still to connect it with sam, and when the word was written samuin and saṁuin, an apparent fitness easily suggested the explanation saṁ-ḟuin—or the fancied etymology may have suggested the spelling saṁ-uin.
FOLK-LORE OF CONNAUGHT.
DOṀNALL DUḂ AGUS BRADÁN MÓR LOĊA-RÍ.
(Lé “Páidín ruaḋ O’Ceallaiġ.”)
Ins an tsean-aimsir ṁaiṫ, i ḃfad ó ṡoin, ḃí fear dar ab ainm Doṁnall Duḃ ’na ċoṁnuiḋe i ngar do Loċ-rí. Ḃí sé fiċe bliaḋain pósta gan ċlainn, aċt aon inġíon aṁáin, ⁊ ḃí sise dall ó rugaḋ í, agus ’sé an t-ainm a ḃí aig na daoiniḃ uirri, Nóirín dall, duḃ. Ḃí guṫ breaġ ceolṁar aici, ⁊ ní raiḃ sean-aḃrán ’san tír naċ raiḃ le croiḋe aici. Aon tráṫnóna aṁáin d’iarr Nóirín ar a h-aṫair í ṫaḃairt síos go bruaċ an loċa, mar ḃí an tráṫnóna an- ḃreaġ. Thug an t-aṫair síos í, ⁊ duḃairt sé léi: “fan annsin, nó faġ do ḃealaċ a ḃaile.” Nuair d’imṫiġ a h-aṫair ṡuiḋ sí síos ar ṫurtóig ṫirm, ⁊ ṫoisiġ sí ag gaḃail aḃráin, mar so:—
A Bhealtaine ḃuiḋe, is tusa an ṁí
A mbiḋeann daṫ deas ar na féiliocáin;
Biḋeann leanḃ aig an mnaoi, aig an ḃó biḋeann
laoġ,
’Gus aig an láir biḋeann searraċán.
Ní raiḃ sí i ḃfad ag gaḃail an aḃráin go dtáinic bradán mór go bárr an uisge, agus ċuir sé cluas air féin aig éisteaċt léi. Nuair ċuir sí deireaḋ ar an rann, ċualaiḋ sí an guṫ ’ġá ráḋ: “is mór an truaiġ go ḃfuil tú dall. Dá mḃeiḋeaḋ domblas bradáin agat le cumailt ar do ṡúiliḃ, ḃeiḋeaḋ do raḋarc agat.”
Nuair a ḃí an ġrian ag dul faoi, ṫáinic Doṁnall, ⁊ ṫug sé a ḃaile í.
D’innis sí ḋó na focla a ċualaiḋ sí. “Maiṫ go leor, raċaiḋ mise aig iasgaireaċt ar maidin i mbáraċ,” arsa Doṁall , “agus má tá bradán san loċ gaḃfaiḋ mé é.”
Ar maidin, lá ar n-a ḃáraċ, roiṁ grian go moċ, d’eiriġ Doṁnall ⁊ ċuaiḋ sé síos go dtí an loċ. Fuair sé bád, ⁊ amaċ leis aig iasgaireaċt. Nuair ṫáinic sé go lár an
