Two Translations of a Poem from the Old Irish

Pangur Bán

This poem was found in the margins of a manuscript in the Monastery of St Paul, Carinthia, Austria. It seems to have been written by an Irish monk, sometime around the ninth century.

Click here for the Old Irish text

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"The Scholar and the Cat"	"From the Irish of Pangur Ban"
by Frank O'Connor	by Eavan Boland
Each of us pursues his trade, I and Pangur my comrade, His whole fancy on the hunt, And mine for learning ardent. More than fame I love to be Among my books and study, Pangur does not grudge me it, Content with his own merit. When ­ a heavenly time! ­ we are In our small room together Each of us has his own sport And asks no greater comfort. While he sets his round sharp eye On the wall of my study I turn mine, though lost its edge, On the great wall of knowledge. Now a mouse drops in his net After some mighty onset While into my bag I cram Some difficult darksome problem. When a mouse comes to the kill Pangur exults, a marvel! I have when some secret's won My hour of exultation. Though we work for days and years Neither the other hinders; Each is competent and hence Enjoys his skill in silence. Master of the death of mice, He keeps in daily practice, I too, making dark things clear, Am of my trade a master.	Myself and Pangur, cat and sage Go each about our business; I harass my beloved page, He his mouse. Fame comes second to the peace Of study, a still day Unenvying, Pangur's choice Is child's play. Neither bored, both hone At home a separate skill Moving after hours alone To the kill When at last his net wraps After a sly fight Around a mouse; mine traps Sudden insight. On my cell wall here, His sight fixes, burning, Searching; my old eyes peer At new learning, And his delight when his claws Close on his prey Equals mine when sudden clues Light my way. So we find by degrees Peace in solitude, Both of us, solitaries, Have each the trade He loves: Pangur, never idle Day or night Hunts mice; I hunt each riddle From dark to light.