Ber Ennyd Einioes

O hyd yr oes pechadur wyf,
  Dan glwyf, fy nwyf yn afiaich,
Yn dwyn fy mriwiau dan fy mron,
  Archollion pwy erchyllach?
O waeledd nerth
    ni welodd Naf
  Tirionaf neb truanach.

Anghofio'n dost fy nghyfiawn Dŵr
  Gwir noddwr trugareddau,
Heb ado drwg y byd
    a'i drais,
  Taer redais at ei rwydau;
Pob ynfyd naws yn draws a drodd,
  Ymledodd dros fy mlodau.

Aeth talm, ysywaeth, dan y sêr
  O'm hamser hoywber heibio,
A'r oes o hyd sy'n dwys fyrhau,
  Mae pwys fy oriau'n pasio,
A'r corff i'r bedd,
    naws agwedd swrth,
  A dorrir wrth ei daro.

Ow! gwan yw dyn, a gwn nad oes
  I'r einioes ond ber ennyd;
Try angau'r byw
    trwy ing i'r bedd
  I orwedd dan ei weryd;
Nid oes un nodded is y nen,
  Na chilen i'w ochelyd . . .

Throughout the age a sinner I am,
  Under a sickness, my passion unwell,
Bearing my bruises under my breast,
  Wounds who more hideous?
From the paucity of strength
    none saw a the Lord
  Most tender none more merciful.

Remembering sorely my upright Tower
  A true protector of mercies,
Without leaving the evil of the world
    and its violence,
  Intently I ran to its snares;
Every foolish temperament which turned contrary
  Spread across my flowers.

A portion has passed, alas, under the stars
  From my vivacious and sweet time,
And the age which is still shortening,
  The weight of my hours is passing,
And the body to the grave,
    passion of a drowsy attitude
  Which is to be broken by its blow.

Oh, weak is man, who knows that there is not
  To the lifespan but a sweet moment;
Death turns the life
    through the pangs of the grave
  To lie under its humus;
There is no refuge under the sky,
  Nor nook to avoid it . . .