Ein dyddiau och sy'n fyrrion iawn

Ein dyddiau, och, sy'n fyrrion iawn,
O flinder a thrueni'n llawn;
  'Chydig a drwg, medd Abra'm gynt,
  A'r patriarch wydde'n
      dda eu hynt.

Rhyw derfyn cul o amser yw,
A ro'w'd i ddynion yma i fyw;
  A phoen a phechod red o hyd,
  Trwy'r trugain mlwydd
      a deg i gyd.

O's drwg a 'chydig rhaid ich' fod,
Fy nyddiau rhedwch ar y rhod;
  Munudau o bechod, dyddiau o wae,
  Ni's gellwch hedeg yn rhy glau.

Par'toed Duw'r cariad f'enaid cu,
A galwed hwn i'r nefoedd fry;
  Mae Iechydwriaeth yno heb drai,
  A phur ogoniant i barhau.

Our days, oh, are very short,
Full of grief and misery;
  Few and evil, said Abraham of old,
  And the patriarch knew
      well their course.

Some narrow limit of time it is,
That is given to men here to live;
  And pain and sin runs still,
  Through all the three score
      years and ten.

Yes evil and few ye must be,
Run ye, my days, on the circuit;
  Minutes of sin, days of woe,
  Ye cannot fly too swiftly.

May the God of love prepare my dear soul,
And let this call to heaven above;
  There is salvation there without ebbing,
  And pure glory to endure.

Our days, alas! our mortal days
  Are short and wretched too;
"Evil and few," the patriarch says,
  And well the
      patriarch knew.

'Tis but at best a narrow bound
  That heaven allows to men,
And pains and sins run through the round
  Of threescore years
      and ten.

Well, if ye must be sad and few,
  Run on, my days, in haste;
Moments of sin, and months of woe,
  Ye cannot fly too fast.

Let heavenly love prepare my soul,
  And call her to the skies,
Where years of long salvation roll,
  And glory never dies.