Mae'r wyn yn chwareu yn y maes

Mae'r wyn yn chwareu yn y maes,
  Ar lawr gwastadfaes tirion;
'Does yn eu mysg,
    mewn porfa lās,
  Mo'r eisiau cās ymryson.


Mae lle i gasglu addysg lān,
  Wrth weled mān golomenod,
Yn byw mewn heddwch, yn eu nyth,
  Heb rhyngynt fyth anghydfod.



Ac felly plant, caruaidd, glan,
  Fo'n deulu mān dymunol,
'Does un anghydfod yn eu plith,
  Ond byw dan fendith nefol.



Anweddus arfer geiriau cās,
  A diriaid gras-ymdaeru;
Nid addas mewn dļalgar dōn
  I Siōn a Siān ymsenu.



Ni ddylid arfer ofer iaith,
  Na gweniaith gael ei gynnal:
Nac arwain trythyll fywyd drwg,
  Ymgomio ā golwg gwammal.

The lambs are playing in the field,
  On the ground of the gentle flat field;
There is none amongst them,
    in the green pasture,
  That wants a hateful quarrel.


There is room to gather pure learning,
  On seeing small doves,
Living in peace, in their nest,
  Without between them ever a disagreement.



And thus loving, pure children,
  May it be in the small, desirable family,
There is no disagreement amongst them,
  But living under heavenly blessing.



Unbecoming the practice of hateful words,
  And wicked, harsh scolding
Not worthy in a vengeful tone
  For John and Jane to quarrel.



One should not practice vain language,
  Nor flattery to get ones support:
Nor lead a luxurious, evil life,
  Disputing with fickle view.

  Abroad in the meadows,
    to see the young lambs
  Run sporting about by
    the side of their dams,
With fleeces so clean and so white;
  Or a nest of young doves
    in a large open cage,
  When they play all in love,
    without anger or rage,
How much may we learn from the sight.

  If we had been ducks,
    we might dabble in mud;
  Or dogs, we might play
    till it ended in blood:
So foul and so fierce are their natures;
  But Thomas and William,
    and such pretty names,
   Should be cleanly and harmless
    as doves or as lambs,
Those lovely sweet innocent creatures.

  Not a thing that we do,
    nor a word that we say,
  Should injure another
    in jesting or play;
For he's still in earnest that's hurt:
  How rude are the boys that
    throw pebbles and more;
  There's none but a madman
    will fling about fire,
And tell you, "'Tis all but in sport."