This is from the eighth century; an anonymous Irish monk wrote it in the margin of a manuscript he was transcribing. It’s translated from the Irish. The cat was white; its name was Pangur (‘bán’ means ‘white’ in Irish).
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 task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In 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 task 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.
The road to God knows where ... Brendan O'Brien 
This is one of my all time favorite art songs by Samuel Barber. Different translation.
Which goes:
Pangur, white Pangur,
how happy we are,
alone together,
scholar and cat.
Each has his own work
to do daily;
for you it is hunting,
for me study.
Your shining eye
watches the wall;
my feeble eye
is fixed on a book.
You rejoice when your claws
entrap a mouse;
I rejoice when my mind
fathoms a problem
Each with his own art
neither hinders the other.
Thus we live ever
without tedium or envy
Pangur, white Pangur,
how happy we are,
alone together,
scholar and cat.
Actually, listening to it, I don’t really like the singer. Here’s another!
Thanks, Jaime … that’s a surprise! I had no idea the song existed.
Good poem!
ALthough ‘mouses’ is a touchy subject chez moi… just ask half of MyT!
Christopher Smart, I think it was, once wrote a famous cat poem, beginning with ‘For I will consider my cat Geoffery…’ all about the cat being the servant of the lord and so on.
And Robert Burns, I think, wrote about cats and mice. Called the mouse a ‘wee timorous beastie…’ if I recall. Don’t bandy that one around on MyT please! RIck whatsisname would have a field day.
Anyway, have good weekend luv 😉
When we were watching the kittens playing the other day it was obvious that one of them in particular was practising its hunting skills. Quite alarmingly proficient for an animal less than two months old. There’s a Seamus Heaney one I’ll post on my page soon that I have been thinking about recently.
Brendano hello 😉
Part of the poem by Christopher Smart to his cat, Jubilate Agno, has also been made into a song but I’m having trouble finding it because I can’t remember the composer. Benjamin Britten, possibly. I’ll work on it. It’s lovely.
I just realised my comment sounded a bit abrupt. I’ll try to post the poem here and there. It’s just that it has made me think of some particular things that I want to put with it.
OK it was Britten, a part of his choral piece, Rejoice in the Lamb.
Here are the lyrics:
For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the living God.
Duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance
Of the glory of God in the East
He worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body
Seven times round with elegant quickness.
For he knows that God is his saviour.
For God has bless’d him
In the variety of his movements.
For there is nothing sweeter
Than his peace when at rest.
For I am possessed of a cat,
Surpassing in beauty,
From whom I take occasion
To bless Almighty God.
Jaime that is wonderful. I love it.
Did Britten have cats too?
This is rather a bleak poem. I’d love to know if Heaney is being ironic in the last lines. As I said earlier, I’m posting it on my page too, because there’s a story it reminds me of.
The Early Purges
was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, ‘the scraggy wee shits’,
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon soused. They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
‘Sure, isn’t it better for them now?’ Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens’ necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, ‘Bloody pups’. It makes sense:
‘Prevention of cruelty’ talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
Thanks for all the comments, and I’m particularly glad to see Tigerbrite. Welcome, Tigerbrite. 🙂
Going to drink some wine now; will respond properly tomorrow.
Thanks again for the cat poems/music (one more song below).
Isobel, you might be interested in comments Heaney has made on this poem, which does end in an oddly unpoetic way.
‘One classroom favourite is “The Early Purges”, which describes drowning kittens on a farm. “It’s terrific because it sets off a debate,” says Heaney, “but I think the poem is flawed because the voice changes halfway through” – from sympathy with the kittens to an acceptance of their deaths. “‘Prevention of cruelty’ talk cuts ice in town/Where they consider death unnatural/But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down,” he quotes. “Very heavy handed but a gift to an English class because you’re left with issues.” Heaney would rather a poem such as “Sunlight” (below) were given more attention. The vision of his Aunt Mary baking bread on Mossbawn farm has no issues to extract; instead, the poet shares his pleasure in physical details – the “sunlit absence” in the yard, the “whitened nails” of Mary’s fingers.’
http://www.festivaldepoesiademedellin.org/pub.php/en/Diario/12_11_09.html
The cat she went a-hunting and found the barn a-blazing
And back she’s come a-calling, a-calling, a-calling
Wake up farm boys! The barn is burning down!
Chorus (after each verse):
And the cat she’s got to hide herself behind the rat she’s eating
So as not to show a smirk and maybe get a beating
The farmer slips on his dungarees and he falls down the stairs
The rats came out in their hundreds and the cat she caught a-plenty
She’s got the artful dodger, the dodger, the dodger
She spied him in the burning hay the barn is burning down!
The fire brigade is coming and frying chicken singing
And we’ll be sitting on boiled eggs, on boiled eggs, on boiled eggs
So open the cage and hose us down we may get a dozen a day
The roof is starting to crumble, sparks fly up in the night sky
The dogs are wearing their tails down, their tails down, their tails down
The boys have made a chain in the yard and they’re passing the pails along
The cat she went a-hunting and found the barn a-blazing
And back she’s come a-calling, a-calling, a-calling
Wake up farm boys! The barn is burning down!
Thanks Brendan. I didn’t know Sunlight.
If you look at my page you’ll see why I posted the Early Purges. I’m still not sure if Heaney means the last verses or if it is an opinion, an attitude of others he is quoting.
I like dogs and cats, but my present cat, as I have mentioned before, is not very likeable.
Yesterday she had to be (partly) shaved. Her long hair gets matted each winter and she won’t allow us to groom her.
Ah well Cymbeline, it takes all sorts. I hadn’t had a pet since I had left the parental home until Cat moved in. He was a revelation. I thought of him as a furry thing with a leg at each corner, but he had his own agenda and a very strong character. It was a learning curve.
And he adores being groomed.
Maybe you could love elegance.
Sounds like love to me!
I know some people do not care for animals, though they would never deliberately be cruel to them, and thought perhaps you were one of that band.
In my own family we are all animal lovers. Anyone who wasn’t would probably be regarded as a changeling.
Did ytou swallow it politely then dial 999, or spit it out all over the floor?
This sounds like a story to be written.
Tummy upset? Sore mouth? No repercussions?
Does it know?
Has there been any documented research about the effects of Ajax drinking on oxen?
I can just imagine them, hunched in the corner of a field, muttering about the yoke, and swigging it back. All adolescent male oxen obviously.
I think you are starting to lose me now.
The ox in you? Is it the same ox as the ox of Aix? Is that Aix-en Provence where I have spent many a happy day when I was living in Marseille. Without oxen or any animal other than cockroaches.
‘I know too that you know a lot about France and French.’
Gulp.
You’re not MI5 are you?
Time for bed.
Sweet dreams.