Y Prydydd a'r Gog

            Y PRYDYDD

Dydd da fo i'r Gwcw loyw, lân,
  A'th firi gân ar forau;
Mae sôn dy barch
    am sŵn dy big,
  Wers diddig, er ys dyddiau;
I diwnio'r twyn, amdanat ti,
  'Roedd mwy na mi'n ymofyn
Paham y rhoddaist gymaint oed,
  Cyn deffro yng nghoed y Dyffryn,
Gan fod mor ffrwythol lwyddol les,
  Fawl addas, wres y flwyddyn?

              Y GOG

Y Prydydd mwyn, pa raid i mi
  Mo'r gwyro i ti nag arall;
Ond i'r sawl i'm henwi sydd
  Yn ôl ei rybudd diball?
Yr ydwyf fi'n cyflawni, clyw,
  Orchmynion Duw hyd angau;
I foddio Nêr na fydd yn ôl
  O'th daith amserol dithau;
Ar drechu trachwant, blysiant bla
  Daearol, gwna dy orau.

            Y PRYDYDD

Ai rhybudd wyd,
    a'th laslwyd liw,
  Yr edn wiw ei anrhydedd,
Ar fy nifethu'n clymu clod,
  Fwyn awen, fod fy niwedd?
A geiriau braw i'm gyrru'n brudd,
  Gosodaist newydd sydyn —
I farw o'i fodd ni fyddai neb
  Boddlonus wyneb blwyddyn;
A'r byd amserol deithiol do
  Gad eto im dopio dipyn.

              Y GOG

Er gwyched meillion
    hinon ha',
  Na chynnig, gwylia, chwennych
Ond a roddo Duw i'th ran,
  Ar wedd dy oedran edrych;
Yr wyt yn sefyll ar naw saith,
  O flwyddi'th ymdaith yma,
Ar hyn o oedran, gyfan gŵyn,
  Bu farw'r forwyn bura',
Oedd fam dy Brynwr,
    Barnwr byd,
  Mesurwr hyd dy yrfa.

            Y PRYDYDD

Mae sôn yn wir am seithiau naw,
  I'm gostwng daw dy gwestiwn,
Y bydd yr ola' o'r rhai sy'n byw,
  Yn trwsio at ryw altrasiwn;
Moes dy gyngor beth a wnaf,
  Pa fodd yr af i rifo
Fy nyled drom; mae'n llom fy llaw,
  I'm Prynwr draw ympirio;
Yn brysur iawn pan basio'r oes,
  I'm gwedd nid oes ymguddio.

              Y GOG

Am bob drygioni, ffansi ffôl,
  Difrifol edifara;
A thafl y byd o'th ôl ymhell,
  Am drysor gwell ymdrwsia;
Edifeirwch gwir, a ffydd
  Yng Nghrist, a fydd yn foddion
I'th ddwyn, er gwaethaf dy holl gas,
  Yn siŵr i ddinas Seion.
Lle cei'n dragwyddol
    fywiol fyw,
  Yng ngolwg Duw a'i angylion.

            Y PRYDYDD

Dduw, maddau i mi fy meiau mawr,
  Pob dydd ac awr, a gerais;
A'th holl orchmynion cyfion cu,
  Ni wiw mo'r taeru, torrais;
Nac edrych, Dad, nid ydwy' ond gwan,
  Ar lawnder annheilyngdod;
Ond ar haeddiant Oen
    Duw'r hedd,
  A'i sanctaidd fuchedd uchod;
Er mwyn ei gariad ar y groes,
  Nag omedd, moes dy gymod.

                 THE POET

Good day to the bright, pleasant Cuckoo,
  And thy merry song on mornings;
Mentioning respect of thee,
    for the sound of thy beak,
  Has been a genial lesson for many days;
To tune the knolls, about thee,
  There were more than I asking
Why thou gavest so much time,
  Before awaking in the wood of the Vale,
Since so fruitful, prosperous, beneficial,
  Praiseworthy, is the warmth of the year?

                THE CUCKOO

O dear Poet, why should I not
  Turn to thee, rather than anyone else;
But to such as are naming me
  According to their unfaltering warning?
I am fulfilling, hear,
  The commandments of God until death;
To please the Master who will not be
  According to thy temporal journey;
To overcome craving, earthly fallen
  Pleasure, do thy best.

                 THE POET

Art thou a warning,
    with thy blue-grey colour,
  Thou bird worthy of his honour,
That on my destruction binding acclaim,
  Dear muse, be my end?
With words of terror to drive me sad,
  Thou set forth sudden news -
To die voluntarily no-one would,
  O pleasing face of the year;
And the travelling, temporal world, yes
  Let me yet surpass for a while.

                THE CUCKOO

Despite the brilliance of the clovers
    of the the fair weather of summer,
  Do not offer, watch thou, long only
For what God gives as thy portion,
  Look upon the countenance of thy age;
Thou art standing at nine sevens,
  Of the years of thy journey here,
At this age, most lamentably,
  Died the purest maiden,
Who was the mother of thy Redeemer,
    The Judge of the world,
  The Measurer of the length of thy course.

                 THE POET

Mentioning nine sevens is true,
  To humble me comes thy question,
The last of those who are living shall be,
  Preparing for some alteration;
Give thy counsel whatever I do,
  However I go to count
My heavy debt; my hand is bare,
  For my Redeemer yonder to appear;
Very hurriedly when the age passes,
  To my sight there is no hiding.

                THE CUCKOO

For all evils, foolish fancy,
  Seriously repent;
And fling the world behind thee,
  For better treasure prepare thyself;
True repentance, and faith
  In Christ, shall be means
To bring thee, despite all thy enmity
  Surely to the city of Zion.
Where thou shalt get eternally
    vitally to live,
  In the sight of God and his angels.

                 THE POET

God, forgive me my great faults,
  Every day and now, which I loved;
And all thy dear righteous commandments,
  Contradicted in vain, I broke;
Do not look, Father, I am only weak,
  Upon the fullness of unworthiness;
But upon the merit of the Lamb
    of the God of peace,
  And his sacred virtue above;
For the sake of his love upon the cross,
  Do not refuse, grant your reconciliation.