Fy Mwthyn ar y Fron

Wynebu haul canolddydd

Fy Mwthyn ar y Fron
Wynebu haul canolddydd,
  Mae 'mwthyn ar y fron,
A'i wyneb teg gwyngalchog,
  Sy'n adlewyrchu'n llon
Belydrau tÍs yr heulwen,
  Fel drych o arian byw,
Nes ynt i'w gwel'd yn dawnsio,
  Ar hyd ei wyneb gwiw.

Ni wnaed ei adeiladwaith,
  O farmor clodfawr gwỳn,
Na meini teg trwsiadus,
  O gloddfa oreu'r bryn;
Ond rhyw falurion gafwyd,
  Ar wasgar hyd y llawr,
A ddodwyd ar eu gilydd
  Heb gym'ryd trafferth fawr.

Er hyn, i mi, mae'n dlysach
  Na holl balasau'r byd,
A chanwaith yn fwy swynol,
  Na'i holl anneddau nghyd:-
Yn hwn y ces fy ngeni,
  A'm dysgu sut i fyw,
Yn wastad ac yn gyson,
  Yn glir wrth reol Duw.

Gerllaw, fe dyf y dderwen,
  A'r hen gelynen werdd,
A'u brigau tew caeadfrig,
  Yn noddfa adar cerdd;
Ac fel mewn clwm gyfammod,
  I gadw 'mwthyn i,
Hwy safant wrtho'n dalog,
  Gan osod arno fri.

Pan droa'r nen yn fagddu
  Gan rym y dymhestl fawr,
Caf yn my mwthyn loches,
  Nes dÍl yr oleu wawr;
Ac yn ei gol mi gofiaf,
  Am nodded fawr y nef,
Sy'n wastad yn fy nghadw
  Yn nydd y 'storom gref.

Cael trigo yn fy mwthyn,
  Ddymunaf hyd fy medd;
A phan ddÍl awr marwolaeth,
  Cael myn'd i wlad yr hedd;
Ac yno byth mi gofiaf,
  Am hedd y bwthyn gwỳn,
Lle cefais felus brofi,
  O hedd Calfaria fryn.

G O Parry, Bala.
Trysorfa y Plant 1883

My Cottage on the Breast
Facing sun of midday,
  Is my cottage on the breast,
With its fine whitewashed face,
  Which is reflecting cheerfully
The warm rays of the sunshine,
  Like a mirror of quicksilver,
Until they are seen dancing,
  Along its worthy face.

Its repairs were not made,
  With esteemed, white marble,
Nor fair, neat stones,
  From the best quarry of the hill;
But some fragments that were found,
  Scattered along the ground,
And put together
  Without taking a great trouble.

Despite this, to me, it is prettier
  That all the world's palaces,
And a hundred times more charming,
  Than all its dwellings altogether:-
In that I had my birth,
  And got taught how to live,
Consistently and constantly,
  Clearly by the rule of God.

At hand, grew the oak,
  And the old green holly,
With its twigs of a thick canopy,
  A refuge of songbirds;
And as if in a knot of covenant,
  To keep my cottage,
They stood by it jauntily,
  Giving it acclaim.

When the sky turns pitch-black
  By the force of the great tempest,
I get in my cottage refuge,
  Until the light of dawn comes;
And in its bosom I remember,
  About the great refuge of heaven,
Which is always keeping me
  In the day of the strong storm.

To get to dwell in my cottage,
  I will wish as far as my grave;
And when the hour of death comes,
  To get to got to the land of peace;
And there forever I will remember,
  About my the peace of my white cottage,
Where I got sweetly to experience,
  The peace of Calvary hill.

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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