Part 1 of 2
I, AND Pangur Bán —
each doing what he does best:
his mind on the hunt,
mine on my own pursuits.
I love, better than fame, relaxing
with my texts, in painstaking study;
Pangur Bán does not envy me that:
he loves his own childish craft.
When at home together, just us two
(we never tire of that tale),
we hold our never-ending competition,
our test of ingenuity.
Our regular daring raids often end
with a mouse caught in his net,
or with some teasing, stubborn problem
fallen into mine.
Précis
An anonymous Irish monk of the 9th century wrote some verses about his cat into his copybook. He begins by setting the scene: he and his cat, Pangur Bán, comfortably at home alone, with the monk intent on his books, and the cat occupied with hunting: indeed they are both hunting, the cat for mice, and he for meaning. (60 / 60 words)
Part Two
HE fixes his eye, sharp and bright,
on the hedgerow; my beady eye,
feeble though it is, I fix
on some pin-point of knowledge.
He races around with joy
when a mouse catches on his claw;
when some delectably teasing problem
surrenders to me, that gives me joy too.
Though we are together so much,
we do not annoy one another;
it is good we each have our own craft,
and each is happy in his own amusement.
Each is master in his own field,
busy with the task he has each day;
and shining light on dark passages,
that is mine.
Précis
The monk continues his verses about Pangur Bán, comparing his cat’s hunting skills with his own occupation as an interpreter of texts. He likens the cat’s victory laps on catching a mouse to his own pleasure at solving some problem of interpretation, and expresses his appreciation for a companion who allows him to get on with his work. (59 / 60 words)