Cwyn yr Henwr Methiant

Ystyriwch deulu hawddgar mwyn
  Ddifrifol gwyn sydd geni,
Ar fin y Bedd,
    oer annedd ro
  Rwy'n wrthddrych o dosturi,
'Nol pallu'r grym, -
    pellhau o'r gwres
  Mae'r dydd yn nes i nosi.


Bum gynt yn byw ar dyddyn bras,
  Meillionog wyrddlas ddyffryn;
Ac ar fy na'r oedd bendith gref,
  A rhad o'r Nef yn disgyn;
Ond troell Rhagluniaeth
    fawr a droes
  Y Byd yn groes i'm herbyn!


Difaoedd mellt ar gofus bryd,
  Y gwair a'r ŷd rhagorol,
Daeth clefyd blin i blith fy mhlant
  I'w tòri i'r pant daearol;
A'm gwraig o'u hel i feddrod aeth
  Gan hiraeth yn gynarol.



Y meistr tir, yn orthrwm gas,
  Cyflawnai ddiras amcan;
Gan werthu'r da, am isel werth;
  Bu'n fawr fy nhrafferfh drwstan:
A phrin i mi gael caingc o ffon
  A'm rhyddid llon fy hunan.



Wrth ganiatâd Iachawdwr byd
  Daeth poen y cryd-cymmalau,
I'm dwyn dan galed ludded lwyth;
  O gwàn yw ffrwyth gewynau:
Mewn dirfawr fferdod ar ael ffos
  Bum lawer nos mewn eisiau.



O gwelwch gwysau amser hên,
  A'm pen a'm gên yn gwŷnu;
Y gruddiau, rhychan dw'r yw rhai'n,
  Mae'r oes ar fain derfynu:
O'r sawl sy'n perchen tymmer dda
  Oes un na wna resynu!


Mae'r hin yn oer a minnau'n wàn
  I'm gadael dàn gawodydd;
I un sy'n llesg
    ar syrthio i'r llwch
  Agorwch eich magwyrydd;
O rhoddwch im, - er mwyn y Ne'
  Oll heno le a llonydd.


Ystyriwch deulu hawddgar mwyn
  Fy nhostur gwyn ar ganu,
Rwy'n pwyso at
    dawel le di loes;
  Mae terfyn oes yn nesu;
I chwi boed llwyddiant
    bob rhyw bryd:
  A phenaeth byd
      i'ch ffynu.

Consider, O beautiful, gentle family,
  A serious grievance I have,
On the edge of the grave,
    a cold dwelling of gravel
  I am an object of pity,
After the force fades, -
    distancing from the heat
  The day is nearly becoming night.


I was once living on a sumptuous holding,
  A clovered, green valley;
And on my cattle was a strong blessing,
  Graciously from heaven descending;
But the circle of great
    Providence has turned
  The world crossly against me!


Lightning at a mindful time destroyed
  The grass and the excellent corn,
A grievous sword came amongst my children
  To cut them to the earthly hollow;
And my wife after them to a tomb went
  By longing early.



The landowner, in hateful oppression,
  Carried out a wicked scheme;
By selling the cattle, for a low value;
  Great was my unfortunate trouble:
And scare did I get a branch of a stick
  With my own cheerful freedom.



By permission of the Saviour of the world
  Came the pain of arthritis,
To bring me under a hard, wearying load;
  O weak is the fruit of ligaments;
In extreme cold on the brow of a ditch
  I have many a night been in need.



O see ye the furrows of old time,
  And my head and my chin aching;
The cheeks, furrows of water are they,
  The age is dilineating them finely:
From those who possess a good season
  Is there any who will not commiserate!


The weather is cold and I am weak
  To leave me under showers;
To one who is feeble
    about to fall into the dust
  Open your walls;
O give ye to me, - for Heaven's sake
  All tonight a place and stillness.


Consider ye, beautiful, gentle family,
  My pitiful complaint in verse,
I am pressing towards
    a quiet, painless place
  The end of the age is drawing near;
To you be prosperity
    on every kind of occasion:
  And the chief of the world
      to prosper you.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Whose trembling limbs
      have bore him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled
    to the shortest span,
  Oh! give relief, and Heaven
      will bles your store.

These tatter'd cloths my poverty bespeak,
  These hoary locks proclaim
      my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
  Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
  With tempting aspect
      drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,
  And grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
  Here, as I crav'd a
      morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial grove me from the door,
  To seek a shleter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to you hospitable dom;
  Keen blows the wind,
      and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
  For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
  If soft humanity e'er
      touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold
    the kind relief,
  And tears of pity would not be represt.

Heaven sends misfortunes:
    why should we repine?
  'Tis heaven has brought me
      to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
  The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,
  Then like the lark
      I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But ah! oppresson forc'd me from my cot,
  My cattle dy'd and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
  Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on
    the world's wide stage,
  and doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
  Struck with sad anguish
      at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
  And left the world
      to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Whose trembling limbs
      have bore him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled
    to the shortest span,
  Oh! give relief, and Heaven
      will bless your store.