gans honna oor Engels

gans honna

Vertalings in die woordeboek Kornies - Engels

withal

bywoord

with that

voorbeelde

A vynn'ta asklos gans honna?
Want French fries with that?

A vynn'ta asklos gans honna?
Want fries with that?

A-ragdha Bre Vri a sevis, ow lettya an hyns, furv tewl erbynn ster niwlek; hag yn-dann y du a’n howlsedhes a glysis tre vras. I a wrug fistena war-tu ha honna lemmyn, gans mynnes vyth marnas kavoes tan, ha daras yntredha i ha’n nos.
Before them rose Bree-hill barring the way, a dark mass against misty stars; and under its western flank nestled a large village. Towards it they now hurried desiring only to find a fire, and a door between them and the night.

a 1:14 Po amendyans Ow drogoberow yw hewoel warnav, gans y leuv ymons nedhys war-barth, yma yew war ow honna.
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

7457 Y krys nebes kenedhlogoryon bos honna an gwella fordh dhe dhifres bagasow byghan ha gwann godrosys gans myska bagasow ethnek. 12.4785
7457 Y krys nebes kenedhlogoryon bos honna an gwella fordh dhe dhifres bagasow byghan ha gwann godrosys gans myska bagasow ethnek. 12.4785

8 Mes mar ny vynn kenedhel po gwlaskor servya an keth Nebukadnessar ma, myghtern Babylon, ha gorra aga honna yn- dann yew myghtern Babylon, ena my a gessydh an genedhel na gans an kledha, gans divoetter, ha gans an pla, yn-medh an
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Meur ras dhis a'n gweres. Pandr'a wrug hi gans an paper-nowodhow? Ny wrav ow oberenn uskis. Ass yw ewnter Ralf feusik! Yma hwans dhymm a weles an eglos vryntin na. Fatell o an gewer yn Sen Ostell? Awelek o, pur awelek, heb mar. My a wra henna arta. Py par yeth yw honna? Ass os gokki, Kernewek yw hi. Pandr'a wredh jy gans an toll yn to an karrji? Aswonnav gras dhywgh hwi ow kuntell an arghans ragon. Pandra! A nyns yw henna noy Mr Peters? Pandr'a evons i? Gwin rudh? Ro dhymm gwedrennas anodho, mar pleg!
Thank you for the help. What did she do with the newspaper? I do not do my exercises quickly. How lucky uncle Ralph is! I want to see that fine church. How was the weather in St. Austell? It was windy, vvery windy, without a doubt. I shall do that again. What kind of language is that? How silly you are, it's Cornish. What shall you do with the hole in the roof of the garage? I thank you for collecting the money for us.. What! Isn't that Mr Peters' nephew? What do they drink? Red wine? Give me a glassful of it, please!

32 ‘Rakhenna yndellma y lever an ARLOEDH a-dro dhe vyghtern Assyria: Ny dheu a-ji dhe’n sita ma, na tenna seth ena; ny dheu er hy fynn gans skoes, na krugya gweyth-esedhva er hy fynn. 33 War an fordh may teuth, war an keth honna ev a dhehwel; ny dheu a-ji dhe’n sita ma, yn-medh an ARLOEDH. 34 My a vydh skoes dhe’n sita ma dh’y sawya a-barth dhymmo vy hag a-barth Davydh ow gwas.’
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

33 ‘Rakhenna yndellma y lever an ARLOEDH a-dro dhe vyghtern Assyria: Ny dheu a-ji dhe’n sita ma na tenna seth ena. Ny dheu er hy fynn gans skoes na krugya gweyth-esedhva er hy fynn. 34 War an fordh may teuth, war an keth honna ev a dhehwel, ha ny dheu a-ji dhe’n sita ma, yn-medh an ARLOEDH. 35 My a vydh skoes dhe’n sita ma dh’y sawya a-barth dhymmo vy hag a-barth Davydh ow gwas.’
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

Niverow a gowsoryon yethow a janj dre'n tremyn oll, treweythyow y kressons, treweythyow yth iselhons, ha nyns yw an Kernowek dyffrans. Istori an yeth ma re varyas meur ha hi ow kelli ha kavos kowsoryon nowyth. Yn anfeusik nyns a'n erthygel ma dhe vanylyon yn-kever istori kowethasek an yeth awos nag usi saw komendyans dhe'n govyn a vernans (sopposyes) an Kernowek. Mar krysowgh y merwis an yeth po na, an dra bosek dhe bethi kov anodho yw bos an Kernowek bew y'n jydh hedhyw. Hi a gowsir gans kansow (mar na milyow) a dus ha pob bledhen yma'n niverow a's kows ow kressya. Yma hogen kowsoryon a's dyskas y'n chi. Ha honna yw yeth bew mar kovynnowgh dhymm!
The number of people who speak languages is constantly changing, sometimes increasing, sometimes becoming less, and Cornish is no different. The history of the language has varied a good deal as it has lost and gained new speakers. Unfortunately this article cannot go into details about the social history of the language, since it is merely an introduction to the question of the (supposed) death of Cornish. Whether or not you believe that the language died, the main thing to remember is that Cornish is alive today. It is spoken by hundreds (if not thousands) of people and every year the number it is spoken by increases. There are even speakers who have learnt it at home. And that, if you ask me, is a living language!

Yth heveli an Ostralian dhe dos a-dhiwedhes dhiworth ammethva-jatel: hir (ogas dhe 6’4”), eseliek ha nerthek y eskern. Yn koynt, yth esa dhodho minvlew berr (nebes haval dhe huni Hytler). Tremmynn settyes yn y dhewlagas a leveris y vos eghenn a was mayth o gwell ganso dhe vatalyas ages dhe dhybri. “Wel, henn yw le mayth ythys kamm, ‘Broder,” a worthybis Porther. Yn fordh arall, ny via Porther yn mes y le a-berth yn settyans Hollywood. Bras o, meur y geher, hag unnverrhes yn y borpos. (Ha, martesen, ny vynna meur keskows a-dro dhe ‘lynchyans’.) An souder Ostralek a worras y wedrenn korev war an voes – gwayans sevur yn studhyow oll – ha gul challenj dhe Borther: “Yn hwir? Fatla yw henna?” “Yma polat, polat re via kachyes gans an zombis pan esewgh a-ves. Yma ev y’n selva lemmyn, owth omyaghhe y’n vedhegva.” “Hag ytho?” a worthybis an Ostralian eseliek hag ev drehevys y wedrenn dh’y dhiwweus unnweyth arta. “A ny gonvedhydh?” a worthybis Porther. “Yth esa ow triga gans an zombis. Ev a lever y vos gansa dres oll an kynsa diw seythun wosa an tardhans yn Melbourne.” “Ha ny wrussons y dhybri?” “Na wrussons, a Syrr!” a dheklaryas Souder keth, Kynsa Gradh, Porther. “Ha ny eth ha bos zombi y honan?” “Na. Ni re’n gwelas, ahanan ni oll,” yn-medh Porther. “Byw yw an polat – kepar ha ty po my. Y feu gorrys war soler y’n wariva, yn kowell, dres unn arethow an Kapten – henn yw leverel an Kapten-vedhek.” “Ass yw honna kraghell kawgh!” a worthybis an Ostralian, meur y dhiskryjyans. “Fatell yll polat triga gans an zombis dres diw seythun heb y vos dybrys po heb y dhos ha bos zombi y honan? Honn yw yn sempel kraghell kawgh. Fatell yll henna bos gwir?” (Yn apert, kawgh o neppyth aswonnys yn ta dhe’n Ostralian hir.)
The Aussie looked as if he’s just stepped off a cattle-station: tall (6’4” or so), rangy and raw-boned. Incongruously, he sported a closely cropped moustache (almost Hitlerian, but not quite). The stare in his eyes also suggested he was the sort of bloke who’d rather have a fight than a feed. “Well, that’s where you’d be wrong, brother,” replied Gately. Gately, on the other hand, looked as if he’d not be out of place as an extra on a Hollywood set. He was big, muscular – and very determined. (And, perhaps, he didn’t much like the talk of ‘lynching’.) The Aussie soldier put down his glass of beer – a serious move in any situation – and challenged Gately: “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?” “There’s a guy, a guy they captured with the zombies while you were away. He’s at the camp now – recovering in the infirmary.” “So?” replied the rangy Aussie, lifting his glass to his lips once more. “Don’t you get it?” replied Gately. “He was living with the zombies. He says he was with them for the entire first two weeks after the outbreak in Melbourne.” The Aussie took in the significance of this – and placed his glass down once again. “And they didn’t eat him?” “No, sir!” asserted Private First Class Gately. “And he’s not a zombie himself?” “Nope. We all saw him,” said Gately. “The guy was as alive as you or me. They had him in a cage, on-stage, at one of the Captain’s lectures – you know, that Doctor Captain.” “Bullshit!” replied the Aussie dismissively. “How can a guy live with the zombies for two weeks – and not get eaten or turn into a zombie himself? That’s just plain bullshit. How can that be?” (Bullshit was something, apparently, that the tall Aussie was fully conversant with.)

Ha ni diyskynnys an wrisfordh dhe le may tothya ha bos lemmyn poll flerys, y’gan dhynnerghis kath. Pan lavarav ‘dynnerghis’, nyns yw an ger poran ewn. Yn hwir, an gath a sias yn ughel orthymm – hag ena ev a wrommyas yn town, gans godros gwir. Herwydh an gath, nyns en vy wolkomm vytholl. Yn apert, hi a aswonni an dyffrans yntredhov ha’n trigoryon erell. Hi a’s kara. Ny’m kara hi. Ass o henna koynt. Ha my besyes diyskynna an wrisfordh, ow tremena an gonnar vyghan ow sia, hy dewlagas a ledanhes a-dhesempis dhe vraster an padelligow ha’y diwskovarn a omblattyes erbynn hy fenn. Hi a dhassias hy gwarnyans. “Ke dhe-ves, kathik!” yn-medhav vy – po, dhe’n lyha, nebes geryow haval. Yn apert, nyns o da gensi an geryow ma drefenn, a-dhistowgh, hi dhe omdhrehevel war hy threys a-dhelergh ha gul lamm plommwedhek wor’tu ha’m fas. My a wayas yn uskis war-dhelergh ha, yn neb kas, ny ylli hi drehedhes ughelder ow fas mes, ha hi koedhys dhe’n leur, hy ewines a veu kachyes y’m mordhos - ha’n gath a lena ena. Heb mar, hi a sedhas keffrys hy dyns kalessa galla y’m esker ha, kudhys hy son gans hy ganowas, pesya grommya yn godros. Yth esa payn – meur a bayn. Onan po dew yntra’n zombis a wrug sonyow a heveli bos kepar ha hwerthinva. (Eus syns a dhidhan dhe’n zombis? Mars o yndella, ny’n keren meur.) My a settyas dalghenn war an gath der kil hy honna ha’y diruska dhiworth ow esker – yth esa son poran klywadow a’m kroghen ow skwardya yn-dann ow jins. My a synsis an gath a-dherag ow dewlagas – yth esa hwath ow krommya hag ow sia mes my re’s gwrussa anwayadow dres pols gans an keth ‘gavel’ re wrussa hy mamm devnydh anedhi pan o kathik. My a dhredhedhis ow leuv rag tewlel an euthvil byghan yn pellder dhiworthiv vy – mes, ha my gwrys yndella – my a verkyas an zombis, warbarth oll, dhe lagatta orthiv a-dhistowgh. Ytho, my a veu stoppyes gansa yn hanter-towl. Esa bern yn hwir dhe’n zombis ma a-dro dhe byth a wrussen vy gans kath gwyls (yn apert), kath dres rewl? 41
As we walked down the stairs into what had become a fetid pit, a cat greeted us. When I say ‘greeted’, that is a relative term. Actually, it hissed loudly at me and then growled deeply, with real menace. I was definitely not welcome down there as far as it was concerned. Apparently, it could tell the difference between me and the other residents. It liked them. It didn’t like me. How curious. As I tried to ease my way down the stairs, passing the small, hissing fury, its eyes suddenly widened to the size of saucers and its ears flattened back onto its head. It repeated its hiss of warning. “Fuck off, puss!” I said, in a friendly tone. Apparently, it didn’t like bad language because, with that, it reared up on its hind legs and made a standing vertical leap for my face. I weaved backwards and, in any event, it didn’t quite reach the height of my face but, as it dropped back to the ground, it caught its claws in my thigh and clung there. Naturally, it also sank its teeth into my flesh as hard as it could and, muffled by its mouthful, growled menacingly. There was pain, considerable pain. One or two of the assembled zombies made noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter. (Do zombies have a sense of humour? If so, I didn’t think much of it.) I grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and peeled it off my leg – there was an audible sound of my skin tearing, ever so slightly, beneath my jeans. I held the cat before my eyes – it was still growling and spitting but temporarily immobilised by the same ‘hold’ that its mother had once used on it when it was a kitten. I shaped to hurl the little monster far away from me – but, as I did so, I noticed the zombies, as one, abruptly stared at me. So, I stopped mid-throw. Did these zombies really care what I did with an apparently feral – and certainly out of control – cat?