Sul y Blodau

Sul y Blodau
Dan y garreg las a'r blodau
  Cysga berl dy fam;
Gwybod mae dy dad a minnau
  Na dderbynni gam;
Gwn nad oes
    un beddrod bychan
  Heb ei angel gwyn,
Cwsg fy mhlentyn yma'th hunan,
  Cwsg, Goronwy Wyn.

Cofio 'r wy pan oeddit gartre'n
  Cysgu gyda ni,
Rhwystro fynnwn blant y pentre'
  Rhag dy darfu di:
Ond bodlonwn iddynt heno
  Gyda'u miri iach
Pe bai obaith iddynt ddeffro
  Fy Ngoronwy bach.

Cwsg, fy mhlentyn, heb dy fami,
  Cwsg yn erw Duw;
Casglu blodau buom iti,
  Sul y Blodau yw:
Chwe briallen fach y ddywed
  Mai yr haf yw hi,
Cwsg odanynt heb eu gweled
  Cwsg, fy rhosyn i.

Beth i serch yw mis a blwyddyn? 
  Cwsg, fy nhlysaf un; 
Onid ti yw'm hunig blentyn 
  Nad yw'n mynd yn hŷn? 
Mae y lleill yn symud, symud, 
  Ac yn bryder im; 
Ond nid felly di, f'anwylyd  
  'Chrwydra'r marw ddim!

Dan y garreg las, Goronwy,
  Cysga beth yn hwy;
Rhaid yw dweud "Nos da", Goronwy,
  Mynd a'th ado'r wy.
Nid oes eisiau llaw i'th siglo
  Yn dy newydd grud,
Cwsg nes gweld ein gilydd eto,
  Cwsg a gwyn dy fyd.
Eliseus Williams (Eifion Wyn) 1867-1926

Flowers Sunday (Palm Sunday)
Under the blue stone and the flowers
  Sleep, pearl of thy mother;
Thy father and I do know
  Thou wilt receive no harm;
I know that not
    a single grave of a little one is
  Without its bright angel,
Sleep, my child, here on thy own,
  Sleep, Goronwy Wyn.

I remember when thou wast at home
  Sleeping with us,
I would prevent the children of the town
  From disturbing thee:
But tonight I would happily let them
  With their merry wholesomeness
If there were hope of their awakening
  My little Goronwy.

Sleep, my child, without thy mammy,
  Sleep in God's acre;
We have collected flowers for thee,
  It is Flowers Sunday:
Six small primroses that say
  That it is summer,
Sleep beneath them without seeing them
  Sleep, my rose.

What to love are month and year?
  Sleep, my prettiest one;
Art not thou my only child
  Who dost not get any older?
The others shift, shift,
  And are a worry to me;
But not so thou, my darling -
  The dead one does not wander!

Under the blue stone, Goronwy,
  Sleep somewhat longer;
One must say "Good night," Goronwy,
  Take leave of thee I do.
There is no need of a hand to rock thee
  In thy new cradle,
Sleep until we see each other again,
  Sleep and be blessed.
tr. 2009 Richard B Gillion
Flowers Sunday Lullaby
Where the flow'rs and gray stone hide thee, 
  Sleep, my pearl, below; 
That no harm shall e'er betide thee, 
  I and father know: 
Little graves
    are never lonely, 
  Angels guard their kin; 
Sleep, my child, thyself there only  
  Sleep, Goronwy Wyn. 

Well I mind, when thou wert sleeping 
  In our home with me, 
Village boys I'd fain be keeping 
  From disturbing thee: 
Would tonight our rest were shaken 
  By their artless cheer, 
If, ah! if they could awaken 
  Thee, Goronwy dear. 

Sleep, my child, without thy mother, 
  In God's acre rest; 
We, this Flower Sunday, gather 
  Posies for thy breast: 
Six small primroses unfolding 
  Tell of summer mild; 
Sleep beneath them, none beholding, 
  Sleep, my rose, my child. 

What are months and years to mothers- 
  Sleep, my darling, so; 
Thou alone, unlike the others, 
  Dost not older grow: 
They are restless, restless ever, 
  Causing me dismay; 
Not so thou, my darling, never 
  Does my dead one stray.

Slumber yet awhile, Goronwy, 
  Under that gray stone; 
I must say " Good night," Goronwy, 
  Leaving thee alone: 
Strange that cradle! hand of mother 
  Need not rock thee now: 
Sleep until we meet each other,  
  Sleep, and blest be thou. 
J W Wynne-Jones, M.A.,
Ficer Caernarfon.
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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