Y Fam i'w Maban (Yn ol claddu ei Dad)

Fy mhlentyn mwyn ni wyddost pa'm
Yn syllu arnat mae dy fam,
  Gan olrhain mewn myfyrdod mud
  Linellau'th wyneb, lawer pryd.

Dy wedd, fy mhlentyn gwirion, mad,
Sy'n dwyn i'm cof dy dirion dad;
  Os gwel'd ei roi dan gwyswnais i,
  Mae etto'n fyw yn d'wyneb di.

Ni wyddost ti, fy maban mwyn,
Yn hiraeth trist wyf fi'n ei ddwyn,
  Na pha'm y methaf weithiau roi
  It' wên am wên,
      â briw'n fy nghloi.

Mae'th dad, fy mhlentyn, dan y gro
Mewn beddrod oerllyd obry 'nghlo;
  Mae etto'n fyw i'm meddwl i
  Pan syllwyf ar d'wynebpryd di.

Mor dỳn y rhwymi'r fynwes hon
Wrth lwch y bedd, fy maban llon;
  Wyt drech nag Angau
      trwm ei gledd,
  Wyt, wyt, er gwanned
      yw dy wedd.

A chwarddi di, fy maban bach,
Yn f'wyneb i fel hyn yn iach?
  Beth am y byd a'i
      drais, a'i dwyll,
  A'i faglau fyrdd,
      sy'n d'rysu pwyll?

Mae'r rhai'n o'th flaen; mae cynghor tad
Dros byth ar goll, fy mhlentyn mad;
  A'th fam ar fyr, ef allai, fydd
  Yn briddell oer mewn lletty cudd.

Bydd yna'th ran
    a'th gyflwr syn
Fel rhyw blanhigyn ar y bryn,
  Heb gysgod rhag yr ysawl wynt
  Cynddeiriog ar ei ffrynig hynt.

Ond chwardda di, - mae nefol Dad
It' etto'n fyw, -
    efe ni'th âd;
  Gŵyr ef am danat; gŵyr a gwna
  Dros bawb o'i blant yr hyn sy dda.

Os trwy ei gymhorth ef - Iôn mawr
Yr wyt yn gwenu'n iach yn awr,
  Paham na chredaf mai mewn hoen
  Y treuli'th ddydd,
      heb gur na phoen?

O! chwardda, 'mhlentyn, yn y bla'n,
Yr wyt dan aden
    Noddwr glân;
  O dan ei dyner ofal ef
  Cei yma ddechreu bywyd nef.

Cei yn y bur drag'wyddol wlad
Ail gwrdd â'th hoff rieni mâd;
  Lle na bydd rhaid
      ymadael mwy,
  Nac ofni galar, cur, na chlwy'.

My dear child thou knowest not why
Staring at thee is thy mother,
  While tracing in mute meditation
  The lines of thy face, many a time.

Thy appearance, my innocent, good child,
Is bringing to my memory thy tender father;
  If see him put under a furrow did I,
  He still lives in thy face.

Thou knowest not, my dear boy,
What in sad longing I am bearing,
  Nor why I fail sometimes to give
  Thee smile for smile,
      with a wound clinching me. 

Thy father, my child, under the gravel
In a chilly tomb locked beneath;
  Still he is living in my thought
  When I stare upon thy face.

So tight the bonds of this breast
To the dust of the grave, my cheerful son,
  Thou art mightier than Death
      with its heavy sword
  Yes, thou art, despite how weak
      is thy appearance.

And wilt thou laugh, my little son,
In my face thus healthily?
  What about the world and its
      violence, and its deception,
  And its myriad snares,
      which confuse good sense?

These are before thee; father's advice is
For ever lost, my good child;
  And thy mother shortly, perhaps, shall be
  Cold soil in a hidden lodging.

Then shall be thy portion
    and thy surprised condition
Like some plant on the hill,
  Without shade from the consuming wind
  Wrathful on its furious course.

But laugh thou, - thou hast a heavenly
Father still alive, -
    he will not leave thee;
  He knows about thee; knows and does
  For all of his children what is good.

If through his help - a great Lord
Thou art smiling healthily now,
  Why do I not believe that in vivacity
  Thou wilt speand thy day,
      without ache or pain?

O laugh, child, go on!
Thou art under the wing
    of a holy Protector;
  Under his tender care
  Thou shalt here begin the life of heaven.

Thou shalt get in the pure eternal land
To meet again with thy dear, good parents;
  Where there shall be no need
      to leave any more,
  Nor to fear mourning, blow, nor wound.