Y Dogyn

Un bore lled-wlybyrog

Y Dogyn
  Un bore lled-wlybyrog
  Ynghanol gwanwyn gwyntog,
Dygwyddodd imi'n ddigon hy'
  Fyn'd heibio i dŷ'r gŵr dog.

  'Roedd nifer o dda corniog
  Yn pori'r egin brigog;
Yn nen y tŷ'r oedd
    tyllau gant,
  A'r wraig a'r plant yn garpiog.

  Yr oedd gerllaw segurddyn,
  Mewn gwely'n troi ar golyn;
Ni wnai efe orchwyl yn y byd
  Ond diogi hyd y flwyddyn.

  Ni thrwsiai ef mo'r bwthyn,
  Pan ydoedd gwlaw yn disgyn;
Ac nid oedd eisiau cryfder gwrs,
  Ysmala, ar hauldes melyn.

  Ychydig gwsg a hepian,
  Cyn myned unwaith allan;
Hyn oedd ei iaith o bryd i bryd,
  Yn ynfyd yn ei unfan.

  Tra bu y gŵr yn cysgu
  Seguryd oedd yn garu;
Daeth angen ato ar ei daith
  A chanfu ei waith ar fethu.

  O herwydd caru'r gwely,
  Ddaeth angeu gls i'w letty,
Y meistr tr yn gwaeddi'n gry'
  Dim bwyd mewn tŷ na beudy!

  'Roedd dr y carchar caled
  I'r gŵr yn gil-agored;
Ni chai mo'r cariad
    mwy na'r ci,
  Rhwng muriau di ymwared.

  Mae'r carchar cadarn cryno
  Yn ddigon hawdd myn'd iddo;
Ond anhawdd iawn heb aur mewn cd,
  I ddyn yw d'od oddiyno.

  A galar ydyw gweled
  Y gŵr mewn cyflwr caled;
Trueni gwel'd y llymddyn llwyd,
  Cyn marw'n fwyd i bryfed.

  Ni fedraf ddim prophwydo
  Pa beth a ddaw ohono:
Ond, cyn y delo i rodio'n rhydd,
  Byd caled fydd, 'rwy'n coelio!
cyf. David Thomas (Dafydd Ddu o Eryri) 1759-1822
Caniadau Duwiol y Ieuenctid Cymru 1815

[Mesur: MB 6686]

The Sluggard
  One rather wet morning,
  In the middle of a windy Spring,
I happened boldy enough
  To pass the house of a lazy man.

  There were a number of horned cattle
  Feeding on the shooting twigs;
In the roof of the house were
    a hundred holes,
  And the wife and the children ragged.

  There was nearby an idler,
  In a bed turning over and over;
He would not do any task in the world
  But was lazing all year long.

  He would not repair the cottage,
  When rain was falling;
And the yellow sunshine had no need
  For the fickle strength of warmth.

  A little sleep and snoozing,
  Before once going out;
This was his language from time to time,
  Foolish in his one place.

  While the man was sleeping,
  Which an idler was loving;
Need came to him on his journey
  And found his work about to fail.

  Because of loving the bed,
  Utter death came to his lodging,
The master of land shouting strongly
  No food in house nor cowshed!

  The door of the hard prison was
  Ajar for the man;
He would not get the love
    any more than the dog,
  Between escape-free walls.

  The strong, compact prison is
  Sufficiently easy to go into;
But very difficult without gold in a purse,
  For a man to come out of.

  And mournful it is to see
  The man in a hard condition;
Wretched to see the grey 
  Before dying as food for worms.

  No-one can prophesy
  What will become of him:
But, before coming to walk free,
  A hard world it shall be, I believe!
tr. 2017 Richard B Gillion
The Sluggard
'Tis the voice of the sluggard;
    I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon,
    I must slumber again."
  As the door on its hinges,
      so he on his bed,
  Turns his sides and his shoulders
      and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep,
    and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days,
    and his hours without number,
  And when he gets up,
      he sits folding his hands,
  Or walks about sauntering,
      or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden,
    and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle
    grow broader and higher;
  The clothes that hang on him
      are turning to rags;
  And his money still wastes
      till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit,
    still hoping to find
That he took better care
    for improving his mind:
  He told me his dreams,
      talked of eating and drinking;
  But scarce reads his Bible,
      and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart,
    "Here's a lesson for me,"
This man's but a picture
    of what I might be:
  But thanks to my friends
      for their care in my breeding,
  Who taught me betimes to love
      working and reading.

Isaac Watts 1674-1748
Divine and Moral Songs for Children
The middle column is a literal translation of the Welsh. A Welsh translation is identified by the abbreviation 'cyf.', an English translation by 'tr.'

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