Mae dydd at ddydd yn dod i ben

1,2,3,4;  1,4,(5,6,7);  1,5,6,8,(9,10).
("Ffordd yr holl ddaear.")
Mae dydd at ddydd yn dod i ben,
A'm taith drafferthus îs y nen,
  Fe ddirwyn amser at y nôd;
Ac yno mhechod a gaiff friw,
A thyna'r pryd concweria'm Duw,
  Bob rhyw ffieidd-dra
      fu ynwy' erioed.

O! ddedwydd, nefol, hyfryd, awr,
Câf roddi 'meichiau trwm i lawr,
  Ag sy'n fy mlino foreu a nawn;
A myn'd i wlad lle nad oes bai,
Ond cariad perffaith i barhâu -
  Llawenydd pur a heddwch llawn.

'Rwyf bron a gorfoleddu'n awr
Wrth feddwl daw fy meiau i lawr,
  A bod y dydd yn agoshau;
Dydd o orphwysdra perffaith yw
I'r neb sy'n blino'i guro'n friw
  Gan nerth trachwantau, a phob gwae.

Wel, dere, ddedwydd hyfryd ddydd,
Rho fy nghadwynau tyn yn rhydd,
  Gad i mi brofi'r hyfryd wledd:
Lladd anghrediniaeth sydd yn awr,
Yn curo f'enaid bach i lawr,
  Ac ymaith tyn holl ofnau'r bedd.

Os ydwyt am fy nhori i lawr,
O dwrf a dwndwr daear fawr,
  A'm rhoddi i orwedd yn y bedd:
O anfon waedd ar fore-ddydd,
O'm rhwymau mawr i'm rhoddi'n rhydd,
  I fyw byth bellach yn dy hedd.

Dwy'n ofni ond yr afon ddu,
Sydd rhyngwy' a fy nghartre fry,
  Yr angeu glas wnaeth fyrdd yn wan:
Fy enaid 'mafael yno'n llaw,
Yr hwn ei hun aeth trwyddi draw,
  Ac yn ei law mi ddo'f i'r làn.

'Dwy' 'nabod dim o'r nefol le,
Ond gwynfyd a fa'i ynddo fe,
  Rwy'n caru pawb o fewn y wlad;
Y dymher nefol fwyn
    sydd fry,
Yn awr ddymunwn genyf fi,
 Fy nghartref ydyw tŷ fy Nhad.

Dy fraich sydd gadarn iawn o rym,
Mae'n drech na'r gelyn mwy llym,
  Mwy nerth dy air
      na dw'r na than:
O tyrd'd i'r frwydr mae'n brydnawn,
A saetha'r fall yn llymion iawn,
  O dal fi i'r lann a dwg fi 'mlaen.

A raid i groesau byth fel hyn,
I ganlyn f'ysbryd bant a bryn?
  Rhyw beth bob awr i'm gwneyd yn brudd;
Rhyw beth i soddi'm henaid gwan,
Yn union pan bo am godi i'r lan,
  Trwy gydol faith y nos a'r dydd.

Pan dodo'r haul, pan 'nyno'r gwres,
A sŵn cysuddiau'n dod yn nes,
  Ac ofnau'n tyfu gyda hwy -
Ni saif fy enaid fyny ddim,
Tan 'stormydd duon o'r fath rym,
  Nes llechu mewn tragwyddol glwy'.
Wel, dere, :: Wel, dyred, :: Wel, tyred,

William Williams 1717-91

Tôn [888.888]:
Altorf (alaw Ellmynig)
Mawl (W T Rees [Alaw Ddu] 1838-1904)
Nazareth (<1869)
  Nannerch (<1835)
Rhosyn Saron (alaw Gymreig)

gwelir:
  A raid i groesau fyth yn llyn?
  Mae brodyr imi aeth ymlaen (Trwy ...)
  Mi deithiais ran o'r anial maith
  Wel dyma'r cyfaill goreu gaed

("The way of the whole world.")
Day to day is coming to an end
And my troublesome journey under the sky,
  Time is winding towards the goal;
And then my sin shall get a wound,
And that is the time my God shall conquer
  Every kind of loathsomeness
      that was ever in me.

Oh, happy, heavenly, delightful hour,
When I get to lay my heavy burden down!
  Which exhausts me morning and afternoon;
And go to the land where there is no fault,
But perfect love to continue -
  Pure joy and full peace.

I am almost rejoicing now
While thinking that my sins will come down,
  And that the day is approaching;
A day of perfect rest it is
To any who is exhausted, beaten, bruised
  By the strength of lusts, and every woe.

Look, come, happy, delightful day!
Set my tight chains free!
  Let me taste the delightful feast:
Kill unbelief which is now,
Beating my little soul down,
  And away pull all fears of the grave.

If thou dost want to break me down,
From the din and clamour of the great earth,
  To put me to lie in the grave:
O send a shout at the morn of day,
From my great bonds to set me free,
  To live for evermore in thy peace.

I am fearing but the black river,
Which is between me and my home above,
  The utter death which made a myriad weak:
My soul, take hold of the hand
Of the one who himself went through it yonder,
  And in his hand I will come up.

I know nothing of the heavenly place,
But bliss which I will be in,
  I am loving all within the land;
The comfortable, heavenly temper
    which is above,
Now I would wish for myself,
  My home is my Father's house.

Thy arm is very firm of force,
It is mightier than the enemy more keen,
  More strength of thy word
      than water or fire:
Oh come to the battle it is afternoon,
And the darts of pestilence very sharp,
  Oh hold me up and lead me forward.

Is is necessary for crosses forever thus,
To follow my spirit hollow and hill?
  Somewhat every hour to make me sad;
Somewhat to sink my weak soul,
Directly whenever I want to rise up,
  Through the vast whole of the night and day.

When the sun set, when the heat kindles,
And the sound of afflictions comes near,
  And fears grow up with them -
My soul shall not stand up,
Under black storms of the kind of force,
  Until hiding in an eternal wound.
:: ::

tr. 2015 Richard B Gillion


The middle column is a literal translation of the Welsh. A Welsh translation is identified by the abbreviation 'cyf.' (emulation by 'efel.'), an English translation by 'tr.'

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