Since we’re marking the centenary
of the Easter Rising, let’s have some Irish poems for National Poetry
Month.
We’ll start out with one that’s been around a good while
longer than a hundred years. “Pangur Bán” was written by an unknown Ninth
Century monk; the exact circumstances have become partial legend in the
intervening time. It was purportedly found in the margins (or on the back of a
page) of a manuscript, with locations ranging from a copy of Saint Paul’s
Epistles to the Book of Kells.
I myself don’t much care about that, because the sentiment
resonates with anyone who’s ever had to do document research in study carrels
of any library of any scholastic institution anywhere. Ever.
Do you mean to tell me that you never once penciled in some
comment in the margin of some old tome you were bent over in the pursuit of
some morsel of enlightenment that you thought might impress a professor?
Still, it’s the rare scholar who could toss off something
like this, rounding up the pleasures of being a monk and being a cat.
“Pangur Bán”
I and Pangur Bán, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will;
He, too, plies his simple skill.
'Tis a merry thing to see
At our task how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
Into the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den.
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!
So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.
Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade ;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning Darkness into light.'
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