Chwe Phenill

Caniadau 'nghyd â'r tànnau llon
  Sy'n boddio'm calon, coeliwch;
Mae'n cadw f'yspryd rhag pob cur,
  Im', frodyr, mae'n hyfrydwch;
Fe lona' 'ngwedd
    siriola 'ngwawr,
  Dyd imi fawr ddifyrwch.

Pan gân y tafod gerdd gyttun
  A'r delyn, gwnant hudoliaeth;
Hwy ddenant fy serchiadau i gyd,
  O orchwyl byd a'i archwaeth:
Nid calon brudd - llawenydd llawn
  A ddyry iawn gerddoriaeth.

Pan gân y tafod gyd â'r tant,
  Eu mwyniant â drwy'r 'menydd,
Fy nghalon lawenhâ, yn wir,
  Dros amser hir, o'i herwydd,
A'm henaid bach, ar lawer tro,
  A lamai o lawenydd.

Fy nwyfus gorph a lawenhâ,
  A'r anian a wna'r unwedd:
Wrth sain plethiadau tànnau mân
  Rhydd miloedd gân yn Gwynedd;
Lle b'ont,
    ni ddaw i flino dyn
  Na gwŷn na hûn i'w hannedd.

Mae'n dwyn i'm cof yr enwog Iôr
  A'r Côr sydd yn cyweirio
Eu tànnau euraidd gweddaidd gwiw,
  Yn Salem, i Dduw Siloh;
Pob un, yn gywir, gyda'r tant,
  A unant gânu yno.

Mae'n enyn ynof fywiol flŷs,
  Ac 'w'llys, heb un gallu,
I uno â'r dorf
    sy'n cânu 'nghyd,
  Un fryd yn ymhyfrydu,
Lle cân pob tafod gyda'r tant
  Felusaidd foliant Iesu.

Songs together with the glad strings
  Are satisfying my heart, believe ye;
They are keeping my spirit from every ache,
  To me, brothers, it is a delight;
It gladdens the most cheerful
    countenance of the dawn,
  It give me great pleasure.

When the tongue sings verse together
  With the harp, they make enchantment;
They attract all my affections,
  From a task of the world and its appetite:
Not a sad heart - full of joy
  Shall give true music.

When the tongue sings with the string,
  Their enjoyment goes through the mind,
My heart will rejoice, truly,
  For a long time, because of it,
And my small soul, on many occasions,
  Shall leap for joy.

My lusty body will rejoice,
  And the nature will do the same:
As the sound of the weavings of fine strings
  Gives thousands of songs in Gwynedd;
Where they shall be,
     shall come nothing to grieve man
  Nor complaint nor sleep to his dwelling.

It brings to my memory the famed Lord
  And the Choir who are tuning
Their golden, fitting, worthy strings,
  In Salem, to the God of Shiloh;
Every one, correctly, with the string,
  Shall unite to sing there.

It is kindling in my a lively bliss,
  And a will, without any ability,
To unite with the throng
    which is singing together,
  One intent taking delight,
Where will sing every tongue with the string
  The sweet praise of Jesus.