Y Fwyalchen

O gwrandaw y beraidd fwyalchen,
  Clyw edyn mwyn serchog
      liw du;
A ei di yn gennad
    heb oedi
  At ferch fûm i'n caru mor gu?
A dywed fel hyn wrth
    liw'r manod,
  O'i chariad rwy'n barod i'r bedd;
A 'mywyd ar soddi sy'n gorffwys
  Ar ddwylo'r un
      geinlwys ei gwedd.

Mae'n dda mod i'n galed fy nghalon,
  Lliw blodau drain
      gwylltion yr allt;
Mae'n dda mod i'n ysgafn fy meddwl
  Lliw'r banadyl
    melyn ei gwallt.
Mae'n dda mod i'n ieuanc, rwy'n gwybod
  Heb arfer fawr
      drafod y byd;
Pam peidiaist ti ferch â mhriodi
  A finnau'n dy ganlyn di c'yd?

O listen to the sweet blackbird,
  Hear the dear, affectionate wings
      of a black colour;
Art thou going as an emissary
    without delay
  To the girl I loved so dearly?
And speak thus to
    the colour of the fine snow,
  From her love I am ready for the grave;
And my life about to sink, who is resting
  On the hands of the one with her
      splendidly comely countenance.

It is good that I am hard-hearted,
  The colour of the wild
      thorn flowers of the uplands;
It is good that I am light in my thought
  The colour of the yellow
    broom of her hair.
It is good that I am young, I know
  Without being used to the great
      trouble of the world;
Why didst thou refuse, Girl, to marry me
  And I following thee so long?