Yn ol claddu ei Dad) Fy mhlentyn mwyn ni wyddost pa'm Yn syllu arnat mae dy fam, Gan olrhain mewn myfyrdod mud Linellau'th wyneb, lawer pryd. Dy wedd, fy mhlentyn gwirion, mad, Sy'n dwyn i'm cof dy dirion dad; Os gwel'd ei roi dan gwyswnais i, Mae etto'n fyw yn d'wyneb di. Ni wyddost ti, fy maban mwyn, Yn hiraeth trist wyf fi'n ei ddwyn, Na pha'm y methaf weithiau roi It' wên am wên, â briw'n fy nghloi. Mae'th dad, fy mhlentyn, dan y gro Mewn beddrod oerllyd obry 'nghlo; Mae etto'n fyw i'm meddwl i Pan syllwyf ar d'wynebpryd di. Mor dỳn y rhwymi'r fynwes hon Wrth lwch y bedd, fy maban llon; Wyt drech nag Angau trwm ei gledd, Wyt, wyt, er gwanned yw dy wedd. A chwarddi di, fy maban bach, Yn f'wyneb i fel hyn yn iach? Beth am y byd a'i drais, a'i dwyll, A'i faglau fyrdd, sy'n d'rysu pwyll? Mae'r rhai'n o'th flaen; mae cynghor tad Dros byth ar goll, fy mhlentyn mad; A'th fam ar fyr, ef allai, fydd Yn briddell oer mewn lletty cudd. Bydd yna'th ran a'th gyflwr syn Fel rhyw blanhigyn ar y bryn, Heb gysgod rhag yr ysawl wynt Cynddeiriog ar ei ffrynig hynt. Ond chwardda di, - mae nefol Dad It' etto'n fyw, - efe ni'th âd; Gŵyr ef am danat; gŵyr a gwna Dros bawb o'i blant yr hyn sy dda. Os trwy ei gymhorth ef - Iôn mawr Yr wyt yn gwenu'n iach yn awr, Paham na chredaf mai mewn hoen Y treuli'th ddydd, heb gur na phoen? O! chwardda, 'mhlentyn, yn y bla'n, Yr wyt dan aden Noddwr glân; O dan ei dyner ofal ef Cei yma ddechreu bywyd nef. Cei yn y bur drag'wyddol wlad Ail gwrdd â'th hoff rieni mâd; Lle na bydd rhaid ymadael mwy, Nac ofni galar, cur, na chlwy'. |
After burying his Father) My dear child thou knowest not why Staring at thee is thy mother, While tracing in mute meditation The lines of thy face, many a time. Thy appearance, my innocent, good child, Is bringing to my memory thy tender father; If see him put under a furrow did I, He still lives in thy face. Thou knowest not, my dear boy, What in sad longing I am bearing, Nor why I fail sometimes to give Thee smile for smile, with a wound clinching me. Thy father, my child, under the gravel In a chilly tomb locked beneath; Still he is living in my thought When I stare upon thy face. So tight the bonds of this breast To the dust of the grave, my cheerful son, Thou art mightier than Death with its heavy sword Yes, thou art, despite how weak is thy appearance. And wilt thou laugh, my little son, In my face thus healthily? What about the world and its violence, and its deception, And its myriad snares, which confuse good sense? These are before thee; father's advice is For ever lost, my good child; And thy mother shortly, perhaps, shall be Cold soil in a hidden lodging. Then shall be thy portion and thy surprised condition Like some plant on the hill, Without shade from the consuming wind Wrathful on its furious course. But laugh thou, - thou hast a heavenly Father still alive, - he will not leave thee; He knows about thee; knows and does For all of his children what is good. If through his help - a great Lord Thou art smiling healthily now, Why do I not believe that in vivacity Thou wilt speand thy day, without ache or pain? O laugh, child, go on! Thou art under the wing of a holy Protector; Under his tender care Thou shalt here begin the life of heaven. Thou shalt get in the pure eternal land To meet again with thy dear, good parents; Where there shall be no need to leave any more, Nor to fear mourning, blow, nor wound. tr. 2017 Richard B Gillion |
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