Boreddydd

Gwrandewch ganmol
    brig y don
  Iraidd wynion ddeurudd,
Gorlliw ewyn ymlaen lli,
  Fe'i gelwir hi Boreuddydd.

Gwastad wyneb Gwen
    lliw'r od,
  Hi haedda glod tragywydd,
Rhan o ddyn mewn rhinwedd yw,
  A'i henw yw Boreuddydd.

O bawn noswaith niwlog flin,
  Yn rhodio gerwin fynydd,
Mi a lawenychwn uwch y rhiw
  Pan welwn liw Boreuddydd.

Y dyn hynaf a'r dyn i'engaf,
  A'r cwaethocaf, a'r cybydd,
Lawenycha ar ael nos,
  Pan welo'r dlos Foreuddydd.

Ceiliog bronfraith, cogau'r rhos,
  Y nos pan fônt yn obrudd,
Duw, mor llafar yw eu cân,
  Pan welan' lân Foreddydd.

Hinon hynaws tre a gwlad
  Ag aur ar gariad gwinwydd,
Duw Tri Pherson, Iesu hael,
  Wnelo im' gael Boreuddydd.

Ni ddymunwn, hirddydd ha',
  Pan fyddo lasa'r dolydd,
Ond cael rhodio'r hyd y rhain,
  Myfi a'r fain Foreuddydd.

Gwell imi 'mwrw dros yr allt,
  Fel i gŵyr pob dyn a'i dallt,
Yn y cefnfor heli hallt,
  Rhag teced gwallt Boreuddydd.

Bara a dwr, dri Gwener gwyn,
  A hyn a wnawn yn ufudd,
Gyda gwisgo crys o rawn
  Pe gwyddwn cawn Foreuddydd.

O daw gofyn dan frig pren,
  Pwy ganai i Wen liw 'sblenydd?
Un ddymunai fod a'i ben
  Ar fynwes wen' Foreuddydd.

Listen to the praise
    of the crest of the wave
  Fresh white cheeks,
Brilliance of the foam of the flood-tide,
  It is to be seen in the Morning.

The even face of Venus
    the colour of the snow,
  She merits eternal acclaim,
The portion of man in merit she is,
  And her name is Morning.

O were I a foggy, tired evening,
  Wandering a rugged mountain,
I would rejoice above the hill
  When I saw the colour of Morning.

The oldest man and the youngest man,
  And the richest, and the miser,
Shall rejoice at the nightfall
  When seeing the pretty Morning.

The cock thrush, the moor cuckoos,
  By night when they be solemn,
God, how vocal is their song,
  When they see the pure Morning.

Mild weather town and country
  With gold on love of vine,
May the God of Three Persons, generous Jesus,
  Make me get Morning.

I would not request, the long summer day,
  When the meadows would be greenest,
But to get to wander along them,
  I and the sharp Morning.

I would rather be cast over the cliff,
  As every man knows and understands it,
In the ocean of salty brine,
  From the fairness of the hair of Morning.

Bread and water, three holy Fridays,
  And this I would do obediently,
With wearing a hair-shirt
  If I knew I would get Morning.

O may the question come under a tree's twig,
  Who would sing to Venus of splendid colour?
One would request to be at his end
  On the bright bosom of Morning.