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1,2,3,(4).
O tyred, y gogleddwynt clir,
Anadla ar dy lysiau pur;
Tyr'd a'r awelon hyny lawr
Sy'n deffro'r arg'oeddiadau mawr.
Tyr'd dithau y deheuwynt clyd,
Sy'n codi'n henaid uwch y byd;
Doed pob awelon yn eu lle,
I godi'm hysbryd tua thre'.
Fel byddo pob rhyw nefol ras
Yn taenu peraroglau i maes;
A phob tymnherau yn eu rhyw,
Oll yn croesawi f'anwyl Dduw.
O tyr'd i'th ardd, fy Anwylyd pur,
Mae'r amser hebddot yma'n hir,
Bwyta dy ffrwyth, o nefol rin,
Pereiddiaf, blanaist ti dy hun.
- - - - -
1,2,3,((4),5); 1,2,5.
O! tyred, y gogleddwynt clir,
Anadla ar dy lysiau pur;
Ac oni ddeui mewn iawn bryd,
Fe wywa'r grasau oll i gyd.
Tyr'd â'r awelon hyny lawr
Sy'n deffro'r arg'oeddiadau mawr;
Tyr'd dithau, y deheuwynt clyd,
Sy'n cludo'n henaid uwch y byd.
Doed pob awelon yn eu lle,
I godi'm hyspryd tua thre';
Gwnaed pob rhyw foddion,
pob rhyw ddawn,
I'th lysiau berarogli'n iawn.
Fel byddo pob rhyw nefol ras
Yn taenu sawyr pur i maes;
A phob tymnherau yn eu rhyw,
Oll yn croesawu f'anwyl Dduw.
O Tyr'd i'th Ardd, f'Anwylyd pur,
Mae'r amser hebot yma'n hir;
Bwyta dy ffrwyth, o nefol rîn,
Pereiddiaf, blenaist Ti dy Hun.
dy lysiau pur :: holl lysiau'r tir wywa'r :: wywa'n
efel. William Williams 1717-91
Tonau [MH 8888]: gwelir: O Arglwydd dena'm serch a'm bryd |
1,2,3,(4).
O come, thou clear north wind,
Breath on thy pure herbs;
Bring these breezes down
Which are awakening great convictions.
Come thou comfortable south wind,
Which is raising our souls above the world;
Let all breezes come in their place,
To raise my spirit towards home.
Thus may every kind of heavenly grace be
Spreading sweet aromas abroad;
And all tempers in their kind,
All welcoming my beloved God.
O come to thy Garden, my pure Beloved,
The time without thee here is long;
Eat thy fruit, of heavenly virtue,
The sweetest, which thou thyself planted.
- - - - -
1,2,3,(4),5.
O come, thou clear north wind,
Breath on thy pure herbs;
Unless thou come in true time,
All the graces will wither altogether.
Bring these breezes down
Which are awakening the great convictions;
Come thou, comfortable south wind,
Which is conveying my soul above the world.
Let all breezes come in their place,
To raise my spirit towards home;
Let every kind of means be made,
every kind of gift,
To thy very sweet-smelling herbs.
Thus may every kind of heavenly grace be
Spreading sweet smells abroad;
And all tempers in their kind,
All welcoming my beloved God.
O come to thy Garden, my pure Beloved,
The time without thee here is long;
Eat thy fruit, of heavenly virtue,
The sweetest, which Thou Thyself planted.
thy pure herbs :: all the herbs of the land the graces will wither :: our graces will wither tr. 2016 Richard B Gillion |
Come, my Beloved, haste away,
Cut short the hours of thy delay;
Fly like a youthful hart or roe
Over the hills where spices grow.
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O let my name engraven stand
Both on thy heart and on thy hand;
Seal me upon thine arm, and wear
That pledge of love for ever there.
Stronger than death thy love is known,
Which floods of wrath could never drown;
And hell and earth in vain combine
To quench a fire so much divine.
But I am jealous of my heart,
Lest it should once from thee depart;
Then let thy name
be well impressed
As a fair signet on my breast.
Till thou hast brought me to thy home,
Where fears and doubts can never come,
Thy count'nance let me often see,
And often thou shalt hear from me.
Come, my Beloved, haste away,
Cut short the hours of thy delay;
Fly like a youthful hart or roe
Over the hills where spices grow.
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