Cân y Tri Slave

Tri Slave 'wy'n weled yn y wlad,
  Yn byw dan draed y byd,
A'r rheiny'n rhwym wrth arch pob rhai,
  Ond gweiddi: Hai! o hyd;
Y Lab'rer gwan fo'n cynnal lwyth
  O dylwyth yn ei dŷ,
Y Ci a'r Cobler, yn ein bro,
  P'un waetha' tro o'r tri?

Mae'n rhaid i'r Labr'er godi lawr
  Cyn torro'r wawr i'w waith,
A mynd trwy'r dom ymhel o dir,
  O bosibl filtir faith;
A bod trwy'r dydd â'i glocs yn ddŵr,
  Mewn fferlyd gyflwr gwael,
Trwy'r tywydd oer, heb orffwys awr,
  Tra golau'r wawr i'w gael.

Pan gaeo'r wawr aiff tua'r tŷ,
  'Gael tynnu at y tân;
Fe fydd y tylwyth yno'n grug,
  Heb le i roi'i big ymlaen;
Rhaid iddo eiste' 'mhe la'n ôl,
  Os caiff e' 'stôl heb 'stŵr,
A chrafu'r maip cyn mynd tua thre',
  'Gael gwneud y gore o'r gŵr.

Pan ddarffo crafu'r feipen fwyn,
  Ei dasg fydd dirwyn twysg
'Gael cadw'r Labr'er ym mhob gwedd,
  Oer osgedd, yn ei rwysg,
Nes cael ei swper fel caeth was,
 Heb urddas, ar y bwrdd;
Yn ôl cael hwe wrth lyncu hon,
  Rhaid chwilio'i ffon fynd ffwrdd.

Rhaid iddo weithian tua thre',
  Dan dwthian, ddechre ei daith;
A hithau'n dywyl fel y pitsh,
  On'd dyna witsh o waith!
Trwy'r dom, trwy'r dŵr, trwy'r laca lwyd,
  Trwy'r gors hyd glwyd ei glun,
Nes mynd i'w fwth yn lwyd ei big,
  Heb wedd na diwyg dyn.

Ei wraig a fydd, pan ddêl i'r tŷ,
  Â'i liw â'i lety'n lwyd;
A'r plant yn crïo o ddeutu'r tân,
  O fawr i fân, am fwyd;
Heb ganddo rith yn mynd tua thre',
  'Gael lonni'i gartre' lwm;
On'd dyna Slave — pwy ddengys lai? —
  Dan lwyth o drai'n rhy drwm?

YR AIL SLAVE
Mae'n rhaid i'r Cobler, sâl yw'r swydd,
  Cyn boddio'n rhwydd bob rhai,
Roi'i ledr coch, a'i gŵyr ei hun,
  A'i hemp a'i lin, heb lai;
Rhoi pwyth i hwn, a chlwt i'r lal,
  Bydd chwith os pal e' 'chwaith;
Heb ddim i dderbyn yn y man,
  Ond diolch gwan o'r gwaith.

Fe fydd, nos Sadwrn, dan ei boen,
  Heb fawr o hoen brynhawn,
Yn gwneuthur cymwynasau mân,
  Am ddiolch lydan lawn;
A sychu'r dom fydd yno'n drwch,
  Hyn, coeliwch, sydd fyd cul,
Heb gael oddi wrth eu diolch hael,
  Ond cinio sâl ddydd Sul.

Ped âi i'r farchnad, yn un swydd,
  A diolch rhwydd pob rhai,
Ni phrŷn e' ledr coch na lin,
  Neu gŵyr at drin ei drai;
Pan fyddo eisiau ffyddlon ffaig,
  I blith y wraig a'i blant,
Fe wna un geiniog fwy o les
  Na diolch cynnes cant.

Os bydd e'n claddu brawd neu chwaer,
  Daw pawb yn daer i'w dŷ,
A'r rhain yn crïo, saith neu wyth:
  T'rewch bwyth heb fwyth i fi;
Wrth foddio'r rhain, fel caethwas ffôl,
  Am ddiolch siriol, sych,
Bydd ei ddwy law a'i ffedog lom
  Gan ddom yn ddrwg o ddrych.

Fe drotian yntau yn y man,
  Mewn ffwdan megis ffôl,
Trwy ganol trawsdir, dros y bryn,
  Mor hylym yn ei hôl,
Cyn cribo'i ben na golchi'r clai,
  Na 'chwaith goffáu ei ffon,
A'i walt yn ffagl yn y gwynt,
  On'd slafaidd hynt yw hon?

Y TRYDYDD SLAVE
Y ci yw'r nesaf, a'i goffáu,
  Ond gweiddi: Hai, hoi, hw!
Mae'n rhaid i hwnnw fynd i maes
  Os cerdd e'n laes bydd lw;
A phawb yn gweiddi: Dewch â'r Ci!
  Mae'r moch yn 'nyrddu'r ardd,
Dan grïo, Huss! dros ennyd hir,
  Heb air yn wir o wa'rdd.

Ond gwedi cydio'n un o'r moch,
  Nes gweiddi'n groch ei gri,
Dechreuant godi'r fonlef fawr:
  Gwtŵ! ai cawr yw'r Ci?
A rhoi iddo ddyrnod maes o law,
  Nes byddo draw'n pen-droi,
Gan ddweud: A ydyw hyn yn braf,
  Pam 'roe'ch chwi'r cnaf yn cnoi?

Os â fe, 'nôl ymluo'n lân,
  'Gael gwres y tân i'r tŷ,
Bydd pawb yn crïo: Trowch e' ma's,
  Ffwrdd! horswn cas yw'r Ci:
Os pal e' redeg gyda'r waedd,
  Am hyn ni faedd e' fyw;
Os cny fe'r croen, fe gaiff bob gris
  O'i ais ar frys yn friw.

Wel, dyma'r TRI sy'n cael eu trin
  Mewn cyflwr blin, heb lai,
A'u gwaith i bawb, tra bônt mewn byd,
  Yn rhwym o hyd wrth Hai!
Cewch gyngor lawn, heb geisio log,
  Mewn 'chydig serchog swm,
Na throwch mo'ch chwith awdurdod chwi
  Tros un o'r Tri'n rhy drwm.

Three Slaves I see in the land,
  Living under the world's feet,
And those bound to a coffin each one,
  But still shouting "Hey!";
The weak Labourer supporting a load
  Of kindred in his house,
The Dog and the Cobbler, in our vale,
  Which is the worst of the three?

The Labourer must get up
  Before the dawn breaks for his work,
And go through the long mound of land,
  Possibly a mile long;
And have his clogs in water throughout the day,
  In a poor chilly condition,
Through the cold weather, without an hour's rest,
  While the light of dawn is found.

When the daylight closes he will go towards the house,
  To get to draw near to the fire;
The tribe will be there as a heath,
  With nowhere to stick his nose in;
He has to sit far back,
  If he finds a stool without a fuss,
And peel the turnips before going home,
  To get to make the best of the man.

When he finishes peeling the tender turnip,
  His task will be to wind a bobbin of yarn
To get to keep the Labourer in every respect,
  A dismal figure, in his splendour,
Until getting his supper like a slave,
  Without dignity, on the table;
After getting strength by swallowing this,
  He must search for his stick to go away.

He must now towards home,
    begin his journey;
While it is dark like the pitch,
  Isn't that a witch of work!
Through the mound, through the water, through the grey mire,
  Through the bog up to his knee-cap,
Until getting to his cottage, with a grey appearance,
  With neither the countenance nor aspect of a man.

His wife shall be, when he comes to the house,
  Of the same colour as the grey lodging;
And the children crying around the fire,
  From great to small, for food;
He has no illusion of going home
  To get to cheer his bare abode;
Isn't that a Slave - what less does anyone seem? -
  Under the burden of draining too heavily?

THE SECOND SLAVE
The Cobbler, poor is the job, must
  Before satisfying freely every sort,
Put his red leather, and his own wax,
  And his hemp and his flax, no less;
Put a stitch to this, and a patch to that,
  It will be awkward for him if he fails either;
With nothing to receive soon,
  But weak thanks for the work.

He will be, on Saturday night, under his pain,
  With nothing of afternoon nimbleness,
Making small favours,
  For broadly full thanks;
And drying the dung that will be thick there,
  This, remember ye, is a narrow world,
With getting from their generous thanks,
  But a poor dinner on Sunday.

If he went to the market, in one job,
  With free thanks of every kind,
He would buy neither red leather nor flax,
  Nor wax for treating his depletion;
hen a faithful face is needed,
  Amongst his wife and his children,
One penny will make more benefit
  Than a hundred warm thanks.

If he buries a brother or a sister,
  Everyone will come earnestly to his house,
And those crying, seven or eight:
  Strike ye a stitch without recompense to me;
By satisfying those, like a foolish slave,
  For cheerful, dry thanks,
His two hands and his bare apron shall be
  With dung a filthy object.

He himself will trot in a while,
  In fuss like a fool,
Through the middle of a cross-land, over the hill,
  So quickly affter her,
Before combing his head or washing the clay,
  Or remembering his stick either,
With his hair a torch in the wind,
  Isn't this slavish?

THE THIRD SLAVE
The dog is the next, and commemorated,
  Only shout: Hai, hoi, hoo!
And he must go out;
  If he walks slackly there will be an oath;
And everyone shouting: Bring the Dog!
  The pig is digging up the garden,
Crying, "Huss!" for a long spell,
  Without a word truly of reproach.

But having grabbed one of the pigs,
  Until shouting his cry hoarsely,
They begin to raise the great clamour:
  Quick! is the Dog a giant?
And give him a thump immediately,
  Until he stands a way off,
Saying: Is this good,
  Why did you set the knave gnawing?

If he goes after being loosed completely,
  To the house to get the heat of the fire,
All will cry: "Turn him out,
  Away! a detestable whoreson is the Dog:"
If he fails to run with the shout,
  For this he does not deserve to live;
If he chews the skin, he will find every step
  Of his ribs quickly bruised.

See, here are the THREE who are treated
  In a grievous state, no less,
And their work for everyone, while they be in the world,
  Still bound by "Hey!"
Take ye full counsel, without seeking recompense,
  In a little of a desirous sum,
Cast not your own adverse authority
  Over any one of the Three too heavily.