Falentin

Fe ddarfu'r gauaf creulon

(Falentin)
Fe ddarfu'r gauaf creulon;
  Tawelach yw'r awelon, -
A'r adar bach, gan fywiocu,
  Sy'n dechreu gwau caneon.

Holl anian gain sy'n gwenu,
  Gan nawsaidd ymgynesu;
Ac nid yw'n deilwng rhoddi sen
  I minnau, Gwen, am ganu.

Wrth wePd dy lun mor laned,
  Pa fab all dewi, dywed?
O rho i langc, ar soddi i lawr,
  O'i ddolur mawr ymwared.

Yn dewis y mae'r adar,
  Yn awr, bob un ei gymmar,
I fyw mewn undeb eithaf llon,
  Uwch pob argoelion galar.

Un, un ddewisaf finnau,
  A hon wyt ti,
      lliw'r blodau;
Yn rheidiol les, O rho dy law,
  I dorri'm braw a'm briwiau.

Yr eneth fwyn eirianaf,
  Tydi yw'r lana' welaf;
Na d, a mi mor wael fy nrych,
  Fath bwn o oernych arnaf.

Rho'th law'n addewid immi,
  Rho'th gusan i'm sirioli;
O galon rydd, yn glodydd gln,
  Diderfyn gn cei genni.

Y mae dy wedd yn waddol,
  Deg Wen, o werth digonol;
Uwch unrhyw bris yw'th lygaid pr
  Sydd fel y sr yn siriol.

O! tro yn awr, tra'n iraidd,
  I rwymyn cariad puraidd, -
Cawn fyw mewn tes, yn gynnes, Gwen,
  A'n byd yn hufen hafaidd.

Mae'r gwanwyn ar egino,
  Daw blodau'r haf i'w rhifa;
Anturia, Gwen, mae natur gain
  Yn cymmell sain cyd-synio.

Daniel Evans (Daniel Ddu o Geredigion) 1792-1846
Gwinllan y Bardd 1831

(Valentine)
The cruel winter passed;
  Quieter are the breezes, -
And the small birds, livening,
  Are beginning to weave songs.

The whole of intricate nature is smiling,
  While temperately warming up;
And it is not fitting to give sense
  To me, Gwen, for singing.

On seeing thy image so pure,
  What son could be silent, tell?
O give to a lad, about to sink down,
  From his great sadness, deliverance.

Choosing are the birds,
  Now, ever one his mate,
To live in union extremely cheerfully,
  Above all signs of mourning.

One, one I also shall choose,
  And that thou art,
      the colour of the flowers;
In needed benefit, O give thy hand,
  To break my fear and my bruises.

The gentle lass I will entreat,
  Thou art the purest I see;
Do not allow, and I poor in my appearance,
  Such a stroke of coldness upon me.

Give thy hand in promise to me,
  Give thy kiss to cheer me;
From a free heart, in pure praises,
  An endless song thou wilt get from me.

Thy face is inviting,
  Fair Gwen, of sufficient worth;
Above any price are thy sweet eyes
  Which are cheerful like the stars.

O turn now, while fresh,
  To bonds of pure love, -
We may live in heat, in warmth, Gwen,
  With our world as summer cream.

The Spring is sprouting,
  The flowers of Summer come to number it;
Venture, Gwen, intricate nature is
  Compelling a sound to sound together.

tr. 2016 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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