Galargan

Fy nyddiau'n anniddan
    ân' oll o hyn allan,
  Gosodwyd Gwenllian
      mewn graean a gro;
Mae hiraeth fel cleddau
    yn syn dan f'asennau,
  Fe lwyda lliw'r aelau
      lle'r elo.
 
Er syrthio'r dywarchen
    i'r ddu oer ddaearen,
  Hi gyfyd fel heulwen,
      yn llawen o'i llwch;
I'r sawl sy'n troi ato,
    mae bywyd heb wywo
  Ym mreichiau ei Dad iddo,
      a dedwyddwch.
 
O! taer yw naturiaeth,
    ni thry er athrawiaeth,
  Ond wylo gan alaeth
      a hiraeth am hon;
A'r galon dan glwyfau
    di-les a du loesau
  A dyr heb naws geiriau'n
      ysgyrion.
 
Mewn henaint, mewn i'enctid,
    mewn nych ac mewn iechyd
  Mae'n aml rai'n symud
      o fywyd i fedd;
Nid oes na dyfeisio,
    na golud na gwylio,
  All rwystro neb yno,
      na bonedd.
 
Fy nydd sydd yn nyddu
    yn fanwl i fyny,
  Y nos sydd yn nesu
      i roi'n isel fy mhen;
Ac un nid oes genny',
    er wylo ar oer wely,
  Pan fo i mi glafychu,
      glyw f'ochen.

Mae'n bwrw yng Nghwm Berwyn,
    a'r cysgod yn estyn
  Gwna heno fy mwthyn
      yn derfyn dy daith;
Cei fara a chawl erfin
    iachusol, a chosyn,
  A 'menyn o'r enwyn
      ar unwaith.

gwelir: Bugeilgerdd 1 : Pwy ydyw'r dyn truan ...

My days unhappily
    will go from now on,
  Gwenllian was laid
      in gravel and soil;
There is longing like swords
    sharp under my ribs,
  The colour of my eyebrows will grey
      where they go.

Although the clod fall
    into the black, cold earth,
  She will rise like sunshine,
      joyfully from her dust;
To whoever turn to him,
    there is life without wilting
  In the arms of his Father to him,
      and happiness.

Oh, stubborn is nature,
    it will not turn despite teaching,
  But will weep with grief
      and longing for her;
And the heart under useless
    wounds and black anguish
  Shall break without the benefit of words
      into splinters.

In old age, in youth,
    in sickness and in health
  Often someone is moving
      from life to grave;
There is no scheme,
    neither wealth nor watching,
  That can keep anyone from there,
      nor nobility.
 
My day is winding
    thoroughly upwards,
  The night is approaching
      to lay my head low;
And I have no-one,
    despite weeping on a cold bed,
  When I become ill,
      that will hear my groan.
    
It's raining in Cwm Berwyn,
    and the shadow is extending
  Tonight make my cottage
      the end of thy journey;
Thou mayst have bread and healthy
    turnip soup, and cheese,
  And butter from the butter-milk
      at once.