My first try at a translation of “Pangur Ban”. A 9th century cat poem, written in Old Irish by an anonymous Irish monk and scholar.

PANGUR BAN

I and my white Pangur Ban,
Are a man and a cat each to his own,
He preens to pounce on a granary mouse,
I leap on some lost word on loan.

I want only quiet with my open book,
Thus I seek no fame from my pen,
Even my Pangur gives me no look,
As he guards a miscreant’s den.

He gladly flicks his tail and I my tales,
All alone in our silent chamber,
Finding endless sport which never pales,
hunting always the errant stranger.

In stoic Pangur’s path one will stray,
Then heroic struggles, valour and death!
For my part, I too will pounce and slay
Some difficult crux with rolling breath.

His sharp eyes can pierce all my walls,
Or roundly compass the floating mote,
Though my own age-dimmed sight appals,
In the light of distant ages I lift and float.

A power of joy is in his swiftest move,
His sharpest claw darting down and out!
I too am swift to joyous pen, when I prove
Some dearly-loved and devilish doubt.

Pangur and I are always like this,
Neither of us troubles the other,
Each of us starts to play at his own art,
Then finds his finish full of bliss.

He is made perfect, master of his trade,
Day and night he works and schemes,
I perform my own work, even in dreams,
Marking wisdom in what man has made.