Sul y Blodau

Dan y garreg las a'r blodau
  Cysga berl dy fam;
Gwybod mae dy dad a minnau
  Na dderbynni gam;
Gwn nad oes
    un beddrod bychan
  Heb ei angel gwyn,
Cwsg fy mhlentyn yma'th hunan,
  Cwsg, Goronwy Wyn.

Cofio 'r wy pan oeddit gartre'n
  Cysgu gyda ni,
Rhwystro fynnwn blant y pentre'
  Rhag dy darfu di:
Ond bodlonwn iddynt heno
  Gyda'u miri iach
Pe bai obaith iddynt ddeffro
  Fy Ngoronwy bach.

Cwsg, fy mhlentyn, heb dy fami,
  Cwsg yn erw Duw;
Casglu blodau buom iti,
  Sul y Blodau yw:
Chwe briallen fach y ddywed
  Mai yr haf yw hi,
Cwsg odanynt heb eu gweled
  Cwsg, fy rhosyn i.

Beth i serch yw mis a blwyddyn? 
  Cwsg, fy nhlysaf un; 
Onid ti yw'm hunig blentyn 
  Nad yw'n mynd yn hŷn? 
Mae y lleill yn symud, symud, 
  Ac yn bryder im; 
Ond nid felly di, f'anwylyd — 
  'Chrwydra'r marw ddim!

Dan y garreg las, Goronwy,
  Cysga beth yn hwy;
Rhaid yw dweud "Nos da", Goronwy,
  Mynd a'th ado'r wy.
Nid oes eisiau llaw i'th siglo
  Yn dy newydd grud,
Cwsg nes gweld ein gilydd eto,
  Cwsg a gwyn dy fyd.

Under the blue stone and the flowers
  Sleep, pearl of thy mother;
Thy father and I do know
  Thou wilt receive no harm;
I know that not
    a single grave of a little one is
  Without its bright angel,
Sleep, my child, here on thy own,
  Sleep, Goronwy Wyn.

I remember when thou wast at home
  Sleeping with us,
I would prevent the children of the town
  From disturbing thee:
But tonight I would happily let them
  With their merry wholesomeness
If there were hope of their awakening
  My little Goronwy.

Sleep, my child, without thy mammy,
  Sleep in God's acre;
We have collected flowers for thee,
  It is Flowers Sunday:
Six small primroses that say
  That it is summer,
Sleep beneath them without seeing them
  Sleep, my rose.

What to love are month and year?
  Sleep, my prettiest one;
Art not thou my only child
  Who dost not get any older?
The others shift, shift,
  And are a worry to me;
But not so thou, my darling -
  The dead one does not wander!

Under the blue stone, Goronwy,
  Sleep somewhat longer;
One must say "Good night," Goronwy,
  Take leave of thee I do.
There is no need of a hand to rock thee
  In thy new cradle,
Sleep until we see each other again,
  Sleep and be blessed.

Where the flow'rs and gray stone hide thee, 
  Sleep, my pearl, below; 
That no harm shall e'er betide thee, 
  I and father know: 
Little graves
    are never lonely, 
  Angels guard their kin; 
Sleep, my child, thyself there only — 
  Sleep, Goronwy Wyn. 

Well I mind, when thou wert sleeping 
  In our home with me, 
Village boys I'd fain be keeping 
  From disturbing thee: 
Would tonight our rest were shaken 
  By their artless cheer, 
If, ah! if they could awaken 
  Thee, Goronwy dear. 

Sleep, my child, without thy mother, 
  In God's acre rest; 
We, this Flower Sunday, gather 
  Posies for thy breast: 
Six small primroses unfolding 
  Tell of summer mild; 
Sleep beneath them, none beholding, 
  Sleep, my rose, my child. 

What are months and years to mothers- 
  Sleep, my darling, so; 
Thou alone, unlike the others, 
  Dost not older grow: 
They are restless, restless ever, 
  Causing me dismay; 
Not so thou, my darling, never 
  Does my dead one stray.

Slumber yet awhile, Goronwy, 
  Under that gray stone; 
I must say " Good night," Goronwy, 
  Leaving thee alone: 
Strange that cradle! hand of mother 
  Need not rock thee now: 
Sleep until we meet each other, — 
  Sleep, and blest be thou.