Cyflafan Morfa Rhuddlan

Cilia'r haul draw dros ael
    bryniau hael Arfon,
Llenni nos sy'n mynd dros
    ddol a rhos weithion,
  Pob rhyw chwa ymaith
      a gilia o'r llwyni,
  Ar fy nghlust draw mae ust
      y don yn distewi;
Dan fy mron clywa'm
    llon galon yn curo
Gan fawr rym dicter llym
    wrth im fyfyrio
  Ar y pryd pan fu drud
     waedlyd gyflafan,
  Pan wnaed brad Cymru fâd
     ar Forfa Rhuddlan.

Trwy y gwyll gwelaf
    ddull teryll y darian,
Clywaf si eirf heb ri
    arni yn tincian;
  O'r bwa gwyllt mae'n gwau
      saethau gan sïo
  A thrwst mawr nes mae'r llawr
      rhuddwawr yn siglo;
Ond uwch sain torf y rhain
    ac ochain y clwyfawg
Fry hyd nef clywir
    cref ddolef Caradawg -
  "Rhag gwneud brad ein hen wlad
      trown eu cad weithian,
  Neu caed lloer ni yn oer
      ar Forfa Rhuddlan."

Wele fron pob rhyw lon
    Frython yn chwyddo,
Wele'u gwedd fel eu cledd
    fflamwedd yn gwrido,
  Wele'r fraich rymus
      fry'n dyblu'r ergydion,
  Yn eu nwy' torrant
      trwy lydain adwyon;
Yr un pryd Cymru i gyd
    gyfyd ei gweddi, -
"Doed yn awr help i lawr
    yn ein mawr gyni;
  Boed i ti, O ein Rhi,
      noddi ein trigfan,
  Llwydda'n awr ein llu mawr
      ar Forfa Rhuddlan."

Trosof daeth, fel rhyw
    saeth, alaeth a dychryn,
Och! rhag bost, bloeddiau
    tost ymffrost y gelyn;
  Ond O, na lawenha,
      fel a wnai orchest,
  Nid dy rym ond dy ri'
      ddug i ti goncwest.
Ow! rhag braw'r dorf sy
    draw'n gwyliaw o'r drysau,
Am lwydd câd Cymru fâd,
    - rhad ar ei harfau;
  Mewn gwyllt fraw i'r geillt
      fry rhedy pob oedran
  Wrth weld brad gwy eu gwlad
      ar Forfa Rhuddlan.

Bryn a phant, cwm a nant,
    lanwant a'u hoergri;
Traidd y floedd draw i
    goedd gymoedd Eryri;
  Yr awr hon y mae llon
      galon hen Gymru
  Am fawr freg ei meib teg,
      gwiwdeg, yn gwaedu;
Braw a brys sydd trwy
    lys parchus Caradawg,
Gweiddi mawr fynd i lawr
    flaenawr galluawg;
  Geilw ei fardd am ei
      fwyn delyn i gwynfan,
  Ac ar hon tery dôn
      hen 'Forfa Rhuddlan'.

Af yn awr dros y llawr
    gwyrddwawr i chwilio
Am y fan mae eu rhan
    farwol yn huno;
  Ond y mawr Forfa maith
      yw eu llaith feddrod,
  A'i wyrdd frwyn a'r hesg lwyn
      yw eu mwyn gofnod;
Ond caf draw, gerllaw'r llan,
    drigfan uchelfaith
Iöan lan, hoffwr can,
    diddan gydymaith;
  Ac yn nhy'r Ficar fry,
      gan ei gu rïan,
  Llety gaf, yno'r af
      o Forfa Rhuddlan.

The sun sets yonder over the brow
    of the generous hills of Arfon,
The curtains of night are going
    over meadow and moor now,
  Every kind of blowing away and
      retreating from the groves,
  On my ear yonder is the whisper
      of the wave becoming silent;
Beneath my breast I hear my
    cheerful heart beating
With the great force of sharp wrath
    as I ponder
  On the time when there was
      a costly, bloody slaughter,
  When fair Wales suffered betrayal
      on the Salt-marsh of Rhuddlan.

Through the gloom I see
    the terrible form of the shield,
I hear the swish of weapons without number
    clinking against it;
  From the wild bow it is a
       flight of hissing arrows
  And a great thunder until the
      dawn-ruddy ground is shaking;
But above the their sound
    and the moan of the wounded
Up to heaven is heard
    the strong shout of Caradog -
  "Lest we make betrayal of our old land
      let us turn their battle from now on,
  Or the moon shall find us cold
      on the Salt-march of Rhuddlan."

See the breast of every kind
    of cheerful Briton swelling,
See their countenance like their
    flame-faced sword reddening,
  See the forceful arm up
      doubling the strikes,
  In their passion they break
      through broad gaps;
At the same time all of Wales
    raises their prayer, -
"Let help now come down
    in our great straits;
  To thee, O our Lord, may our
      dwelling-place be sealed,
  Prosper now our great host
      on the Salt-marsh of Rhuddlan."

Over me there came, like some arrow,
    sorrow and horror,
Oh! not the bragging of the sore shouts
    of the boast of the enemy;
  But O, do not rejoice, as if thou
      didst achievement this outcome,
  Not thy power but thy number
      brought to thee victory.
Oh! not the terror of the throng which is
    yonder watching from the doors,
For the success of the good army of Wales,
    - a blessing on their weapons;
  In wild terror to the heights above,
      runs every age-group,
  On seeing the betrayal their land's men
      on the Salt-marsh of Rhuddlan.
 
Hill and hollow, vale and stream,
    they fill with their cold cry;
The shout penetrates yonder to the
    public valleys of Snowdonia;
  Now is the cheerful
      heart of old Wales
  Wanting greatly to break for
      its fair, worthy sons, bleeding;
Terror and pressure are throughout
    the court of revered Caradog,
A great shout goes to the floor
    of an able leader;
  His bard calls for his dear
      harp to lament,
  And on that he strikes the tune
      of "the Salt-marsh of Rhuddlan".

I will go now over the
    viridescent ground to seek
For the place where their
    mortal part is sleeping;
  But the great, vast Morfa
      is their moist tomb,
  And its green brush and the sedge
      grove is their gentle marker;
But there I may get, by the churchyard,
    of the high, broad dwelling
Of St John, a lover of song,
    a pleasant companion;
  And up in the house of the Vicar,
      by his dear lady,
  I may get a lodging, there I shall go
      from the Salt-marsh of Rhuddlan.

Calm sets the sun oe'r
    the hills of Carnarvon;
  Deep fall the shadows
      on valley and lea;
Scarce a breath ripples
    the breast of old ocean;
  Faint on my ear falls
      the roll of the sea.
Loud my heart beats,
    while wrathful and thrilling
Thoughts of the battle
    my spirit are filling;
  Thoughts of the battle
      so fatal to Britain
  When the brave Cymry fell
      on Morva Rhuddlan.

Dim through the gloaming
    I see the broad targes,
  Weapons I hear, as they
      clash on the shield;
Arrow fly hissing,
    and oft renewed charges
  Thunder and shake all the
      blood-covered field:
Higher than all, oe'r the
    cries of the wounded,
Lofty the voice of
    Caradoc resounded, -
  "Down with the foeman -
      fight bravely for Britain,
  Or the moon see us cold
      on Morva Rhuddlan."

See the bold hearts of the
    Britains are heaving,
  Red, like their swords,
      seem ther eyeballs to glow;
See the strong arm a wide
    passage is cleaving
  Right through the faltering
      ranks of the foe:
Rises the voice of all
    Cymru to heaven, -
"Now in our anguish
    let succour be given:
See, O! our God, send down
    comfort to Britain,
Give success to our hosts
    on Morva Rhuddlan."

Swift through my soul darts
    a feeling of horror,
  Hark! the proud enemy
      shouts o'er his prey;
But O! rejoice not, or
    boast of thy valour,
  Numbers, not courage,
      have conquered to-day!
There at their thresholds
    stand wailing in sorrow,
Sires, wives, and children -
    and fear for the morrow:
All to the crags and the
    mountains of Arvon,
Will fly from the slaughter
    of Morva Rhuddlan.

Cries of defeat arise,
    dismall and drear,
  Wildest lament fills
      the valley and plain:
Shout echoed forth from
    the cliffs of Eryri
  Tell how the Cymric heart
      bleeds for the slain:
Terror the court of
    Caradoc oppresses,
Loss of the chieftain
    all Cymru distresses;
Then strikes his bard the deep
    harp-strings of Arvon,
And tunes the air plaintive -
    "Old Morva Rhuddlan."