Y Ddafad

Mor wirion ydwyt, Ddafad fwyn,
  Mae'th wedd yn dwyn rhyw deimlad
I bob rhyw fynwes, hawddgar, rwydd,
  O wir serchogrwydd attad.

Nid oes it erfyn o un math
  I ymladd â'th elynion;
Na chorn na charn i daro'r ci
  A fo'n dy boeni 'n greulon.

Dim, dim ond ffoi, yn llesg a gwâr,
  Yw amddiffynfa'r Ddafad, -
A chynt nâ hi pob corgi sydd
  Pan fwyaf rhydd ei rhediad.

A phan y metha 'i hoenyn glwys
  Ei dilyn er dwys alw,
Er braw, ni âd yr eiddil gwan;
  Saif yn y fan hyd farw.

Ac wrth y llawr ei throed hi gur
  Yn anwyl bur ei bwriad, -
E gododd ganwaith, wrth wel'd hyn,
  Y deigryn yn fy llygad.

Ond os na roddwys Natur lon
  Ddant llym i hon, na charnau,
Mae unpeth iddi etto'n faeth
  Nid gronyn gwaeth nâ hwythau.

Mae iddi'n dêg ymgeledd dyn,
  Dàn frath a gwŷn helbulon, -
A modd i dalu iddo'n faith
  Am oll o'i waith mwyneiddlon.

Peth mwy ei werth a rydd i ni
  Nâ'r prisfawr fwyni arian;
Neu aur, sy'n llenwi daear dda
  Y liwdeg India lydan.

I ddyn mae'n rhoddi cymmorth clyd,
  Rhag gwyntoedd enbyd digllon,
A rhag y gwlaw sy'n curo'n flin,
  Pan byddo'r hin yn greulon.

Y fantell wresog gawn y nos
  Mewn gwely diddos diddan,
Pwy in' a'i rhydd yn fendith rad,
  Pwy, ond y Ddafad fwynlan?

Iawn gofiwn am y Ddafad dda,
  Pan byddo'r gaua' 'n rhuo;
Pan guro'r gwlaw - a ninnau'n glyd,
  Boed parch o hyd i honno.

Ei gwisgoedd hi i ni sy'n nawdd, -
  Mae hi wrth glawdd yn delwi:
Dangoswn fyth y gorau fan
  I fod yn drigfan iddi.

How silly thou art, gentle Sheep,
  Thy countenance is drawing some feeling
To every kind of breast, beautiful, free,
  From true affection towards thee.

There is no end to it of any kind
  To fight with thy enemies;
Neither horn nor hoof to strike the dog
  That be bothering thee cruelly.

Nothing, nothing but fleeing, feebly and genially,
  Is the defence of the Sheep, -
And quicker than her every corgi is
  When most free its running.

And when its beautiful leash fails
  Follows her despite an intense call,
Despite terror, it will not leave the feeble weak;
  She will stand in the place until dying.

And against the ground her feet strike
  Belovedly pure her intention, -
It arose a hundred times, on seeing this,
  The tear in my eye.

But if cheerful Nature did not give
  A sharp tooth to this one, nor hooves,
There is one thing for her still as a provision
  Not a grain poorer than they.

She has the fair support of a man,
  Under the bite and the pain of troubles, -
And a means to pay him extensively
  For all of his cheerfully gentle work.

Something of more worth she gives to us
  Than the precious, enjoyable silver;
Or gold, which is filling the good earth
  Of the nicely-coloured, vast India.

To man it is giving cosy help,
  Against dangerous, cheerless winds,
And against the rain which beats grievously,
  Whenever the weather is cruel.

The warm cloak we may get by night
  In a snug, comforting bed,
Who gives us a free blessing,
 Who, but the lovely Sheep?

Well let us remember the good Sheep,
  Whenever the winter be roaring;
When the rain beats - and we are secure,
  Let there be reverence always to her.

Her garments to us are a protection, -
  She is by a dyke turning pale, -
Let us show forever the best place
  To be a dwelling for her.