Messe ocus Pangur bán,
cechtar nathar fria shaindán:
bíth a menmasam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im shaincheirdd.
Caraimse fos, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrán, léir ingnu;
ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán:
caraid cesin a maccdán.
Ó ru biam, scél cen scís,
innar tegdais, ar n-óendís,
táithiunn, díchríchide clius,
ní fris tarddam ar n-áthius.
Gnáth, húaraib, ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna línsam;
os mé, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu ndronchéill.
Fúachaidsem fri frega fál
a rosc, a nglése comlán;
fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis
mu rosc réil, cesu imdis.
Fáelidsem cu ndéne dul
hi nglen luch inna gérchrub;
hi tucu cheist ndoraid ndil
os mé chene am fáelid.
Cia beimmi a-min nach ré
ní derban cách a chéle:
maith la cechtar nár a dán;
subaigthius a óenurán. |
I and white Pangur
practise each of us his special art:
his
mind is set on hunting,
my mind on my special craft.
I love – it is better than all fame –
to be quiet
beside my
book,
diligently pursuing knowledge.
White Pangur does
not envy me:
he loves his childish craft.
When the two of us – this tale never wearies us –
are alone
together in our house,
we have something to which we
may apply our skill, an endless sport.
It is usual, at times, for a mouse to stick in his net,
as a
result of warlike battlings.
For my part, into my net falls
some difficult rule of hard meaning.
He directs his bright perfect eye against an enclosing wall.
Though my clear eye is very weak,
I direct it against keenness
of knowledge.
He is joyful with swift movement
when a mouse sticks in
his sharp paw.
I too am joyful when I understand a
dearly loved difficult problem.
Though we be thus at any time,
neither of us hinders the
other:
each of us likes his craft,
severally rejoicing in them |
