The Scholar and the Cat. This, one of the most beautiful poems of the early Middle Ages, was found in a manuscript in Austria. I have hinted at the rhyme—scheme of the Irish, which displaces the accent in alternate lines. Robin Flower’s well-known translation in the metre of “Twinkle, twinkle, little star”ignores the slowness of the original, which approximates more to iambic pentameter. 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. Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; pp.14-15