Cyffes a Chynghor yr Oferddyn

Dewch holl ofer-ddynion afradlon o fryd

(Cyffes, a Chynghor, yr Oferddyn.)
Dewch hollofer-ddynion,
    afradlon o fryd,
Sy'n caru cwmnaeth,
    a bariaeth y byd;
  Clwych gyffes oferwr, ynfydwr wyf fi
  A dreuliais o arian -
      do, raian di ri';
Meddaldra fy natur
    mewn trymgur a'm troes,
'Rwy'n dirwyn blinderus -
    dirmygus derm oes,
  Br einioes, brau yw:
  Dilynais ormodedd o
      faswedd wrth fyw:
Truenus yw cyflwr
    ceg-laith leibiwr gwlych;
A garo fyw'n sobr,
    mewn gwobr mwy gwych;
  Eglurwych y glod;
  A mwy o orfoledd
      yn niwedd y nod.

Pob dyn anystyriol,
    anfuddiol ei fost,
Meddylied pob cyflwr
    hen dermiwr yn dost;
  Nid oes nemawr gysur
      mwyn hoywbur mewn hedd:
  Wrth ddanfon corph pwdr
      hen bottiwr i'r bedd;
Na nemawr orfoledd
    drwy ryfedd ln drefn,
Pan ddel ad-gyfodiad - derchafiad drachefn,
  Rhyw annhrefn rhy hir,
  A fydd arddydd cyfri -
      'rwy'n ofni ar rai'n wir;
Oferwyr myfriwch - dychwelwch da chwi,
Na rodiwch mor llwybrau, run foddau a myfi,
  Yn wisgi, ddrwg was;
  I'ch tỳnu o'r hynt hno,
      Duw roddo i chwi ras.

Danfonodd Duw tirion arwyddion o wres,
Ac aml wahoddiad o gariad a g'es;
  A minnau'n arferu diystyru'n dost iawn,
  Pob cynghor caredig - nodedig y dawn;
Bwriadu'n barodol draw'n siriol
    droi'n sant,
Ond methu rheoli
    a chospi fy chwant:
  Roedd trachwant mwy trwm;
  Yn croesi rheolau rhesymau ryw swm:
An awr, gan ystyried, 'rwy'n gweled y gwall,
Mai drwg yw arferion
    cyfeillion y Fall;
  Ond anghall yw dyn;
  Fo'n dilyn hudoliaith
      mewn gweniaith a gwŷn.

Er imi fyw beunydd i grefydd yn groes,
Gan ddilyn meddalwch - oferwch yn f'oes;
  Mae Duw yn fy arbed a'i nodded yn awr,
  Yn disgyn o'r nefoedd,
      wiw lysoedd i lawr:
Er imi droseddu, rhyfeddu 'rwyf fi,
Anfeidrol ffyddlondeb,
    tiriondeb Duw Tri;
  Tosturi sy'n 'str;
  Ym mynwes ddymunol -
    ddewisol Dduw Ior,
Mae etto i bechadur
    bur gysur i'w gael;
Mae Duw'n rho'i trugaredd -
    ymgeledd i'r gwae
  Gwir afael ffydd gref,
  A saif mewn uniondeb,
      yn wyneb y nef.

David Thomas (Dafydd Ddu o Eryri) 1759-1822

Mesur: "Y Breuddwyd"

(The Confession, and Advice, of the Wastrel.)
Come ye complete wastrels,
    prodigal of mind,
Who love the company,
    and greed of the world;
  Hear an idler's confession, a fool am I
  Who spent money -
      yes, innumerably countless;
The laxity of my nature
    turned me in a heavy blow,
I am reeling grievously -
    a contemptuous term of life,
  A short lifespan, it is fragile:
  I followed the excess of
      wantonness while living:
Pitiful is the condition
    of a wet-mouthed swallower of liquid;
Who would love to live soberly,
    in a prize more brilliant;
  Illustrious the acclaim;
  With more jubilation
      at the end of the aim.

Every unheeding man,
    unprofitable his boast,
Let him think of every condition
    of an old boozer as sore;
  There is scarcely any tender
       purely gay comfort in peace:
  In sending the putrid body
       of an old drunkard to the grave;
Nor scarcely any jubilation
    through a wonderful holy plan,
When resurrection comes - a rising again,
  Some disorder too long,
  Shall a gardener count -
      I fear it true of some;
Wastrels consider - return I pray you,
Nor walk the paths, the same manner as I,
  In whisky, an evil servant;
  To draw you from that course,
      That God gave you to race.

God sent gentle signs of heat,
And a frequent invitation of love was had;
  Whereas I usually ignored very sorely,
  Every loving counsel - notable the gift;
Constantly intending fairly cheerfully
    to become a saint,
But failing to control
    and chastise my lust:
  It was a craving more heavy;
  Crossing the rules for some reasons:
Now, on considering, I am seeing the fault,
That evil are the practices
    of the friends of the Demon;
  But unwise is a man;
  Who be following enchantment
      in flattery and passion.

Although I live daily contrary to religion,
Following ease - futility in my life;
  God is saving me, be it noted now,
  Descending from heaven,
      worthy courts, down:
Although I transgress, wondering I am, at
The immeasurable faithfulness,
    the tenderness of the God of Three;
  Mercy that is a store;
  In the pleasant bosom -
      the desirable God the Lord,
There is still for a sinner
    a pure comfort to be got;
God is giving his mercy -
    help for the sorrowful
  The true grasp of strong faith,
  Shall stand in uprightness,
      in the face of heaven.

tr. 2020 Richard B Gillion

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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