Rhyfel

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
  A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O'i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
  Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
  Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae sŵn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
  A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt
  Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
  A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw.

O woe that I should live in such a perverse age,
  With God setting on a distant horizon;
And left behind is man, as lord and commoner
  Raising his hideous authority.

When he felt God's going away
  He raised his sword to kill his brother;
The sound of fighting is on our hearing,
  And its shadow on poor cottages.

The old harps that were once played are
  Hanging on the branches of yonder willows,
And the outcry of the lads filling the wind,
  And their blood a mixture with the rain.

Woe that I live in times so low
  When God is setting like a sun
And in his place the serf and king
  Set up a sick and haughty throne.

When he believed that God was gone
  Man faced his brother with the sword.
Now death is roaring in our ears,
  Shadowing the shanties of the poor.

The old and silenced harps are hung
  On yonder willow trees again.
The screams of boys are on the wind.
  Their blood is blended in the rain.