Who is Kuno Meyer

Kuno Meyer (20 December 1858 – 11 October 1919) was a German scholar, distinguished in the field of Celtic philology and literature. His pro-German stance at the start of World War I in the United States was a source of controversy. His brother was the distinguished classical scholar, Eduard Meyer.

Meyer was considered first and foremost a lexicographer among Celtic scholars but is known by the general public in Ireland rather as the man who introduced them to Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry (1911).He founded and edited four journals devoted to Celtic Studies, published numerous texts and translations of Old and Middle Irish romances and sagas, and wrote prolifically, his topics ranging to name origins and ancient law.

Early life

Born in Hamburg, he...
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Top 10 most used topics by Kuno Meyer

Wind 1 Poison 1 Speed 1 Depth 1 Trinity 1 Mouth 1 Hear 1 Guide 1 Shield 1 Earth 1


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Comments about Kuno Meyer

Poemtoday: saint patrick - saint patrick's breastplate (translated by kuno meyer)
Conormcdonough4: i showed this video to a scholarly friend who gently pointed out that we had filmed this in the wrong place! oh dear. 12 miles off. we went to cnoc alúine instead of cnoc ailinne (knockaulin, near kilcullen). kuno meyer is entirely to blame, so please direct all enquiries to him.
Djbirishhistory: 'thereupon the youth eats the salmon. it is that which gave the knowledge to finn, to wit, whenever he put his thumb into his mouth and sang through teinm laida, then whatever he had been ignorant of would be revealed to him.' — the boyish exploits of finn (trans. kuno meyer)
Aegiuscreator: light of sun, radiance of moon, splendor of fire, speed of lightning. -kuno meyer
Duffrowe: from the vision of mac conglinne trans: kuno meyer from the old irish wheatlet son of milklet, son of juicy bacon, is my own name... ⬇️⬇️⬇️
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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