Florrie Fach

Yn y ddistaw fynwent wledig,

Dim ond cloch y Llan

Geri yn torri cysegredig

Dawel hedd y fan;

Yno clywir hwyr a borau

Su yr awel fach,

Yno ceir ymhlith y blodau,

Feddrod Florrie Fach.

Gwena’r blodau, cana’r adar,

Sya’r awel iach,

Yn y ddistaw fynwent wledig,

Lle rhowd Florrie Fach.

Wedi ’storm  falurio’r teulu,

Cysur penna’i thad,

Pan ar lawr, i’w adgyfnerthu

Oedd ei Florrie fâd;

A dau lygad fel cariadus

Sêr ar fron y nos,

Gwenai ar ei thad hiraethus

Fel angyles dlôs.

‘Dada’ ydoedd popeth Florrie,

Wedi colli ei mam;

Yntau’n hanner ei haddoli,

Hwyr a bore am

Arlun byw o’I mam oedd wedi

Mynd o’I blaen I’r nef

I’w gysuro oedd ei Florrie

Fechan iddo ef.

Miwsig nefol oedd cerddediad

Ei “forwynig” ddel,

Pan yn cyrchu’r slippers gyda

Dweyd ei ’stori ffel;

Heddyw prudd yw’r ty ac unig,

Collwyd swn ei throed;

Claddodd “Dada” ei “forwynig,”

Do, yn dair blwydd oed.

Ambell degan a dilledyn

Geir o gylch y ty,

Dynant lawer gloeweddeigryn

Wrth ei chofio hi;

Ond i’r glust daw llais rhyw ysbryd

Wna y fron yn iach,

Dwyed, at ei mam i wynfyd,

Dygwyd Florrie Fach.

Gwena’r blodau cana’r adar,

Sua’r awel iach,

Yn y ddistaw fynwent wledig,

Lle rhowd Florrie fach.

 

Little Florrie

In the quiet country cemetery,

Only the sound of the church bell

Breaks the holy, peaceful solitude;

Heard there morning and night

Where breeze whispers ,

among the flowers,

Lays the grave of Little Florrie.

The flowers smiled, the birds sang,

The breeze whispered,

In the quiet country cemetery,

Where lay Little Florrie.

After the storm destroyed the family,

Her father’s greatest comfort,

When on the floor, giving him strength

Was his beloved Florrie;

And her two loving eyes

Like stars sparkling in the night,

She smiled at her father, longingly

Like a beautiful Angel.

‘Daddy’ was everything to Florrie,

After losing her mother;

And he adored her,

Day and night

She was a living living painting of her mother,

Went before her to heaven,

Little Florrie was her father’s comfort.

Her presence was like sacred music,

His beautiful girl,

When walking in her slippers,

Relating her simple stories;

Today the house is empty and sad,

Her footsteps can no longer be heard;

Daddy had buried his little girl,

Yes, and only three years old.

A few toys or clothes,

Seen around the house,

Would prompt a tear or two,

While remembering her;

But to the ear came a ghostly voice

That makes the heart feel good,

It says, that to her mother in Paradise,

Little Florrie has gone.

The flowers smiled the birds sang,

The breeze whispered,

In the quiet cemetery,

Where lay Little Florrie.

Translation by Catrin Haines-Davies, volunteer at Swansea University

 

Y Baban ar fin y Dibyn.

 

Ar lecyn glâs, ar ael daneddog graig,

Estynnai’I throed I’w golchi gan yr aig,

Gwyngalchog fwthyn clyd pysgotwr sydd

Fel meudwy yn mwynhau’r awelon rhydd;

Nid nepell oddiwrth y bwthyn derch

Yn gyrru braw drwy ddyn mae dibyn erch,

A dwyed ystwyth dafod ofer-goeliaeth

Mai’r dibyn erchyll hwn yw porth marwolaeth,

A body n nyfynder prudd y nos, ysbrydion

Y dewrion lyncir gan wyllt raib yr eigion,

Yn hofran uwch y lle, a’u hanaearol leisiau

Yn blaenu pob ystorm, fel rhagredegwyr angau!

Tra’r tad yn ei fwyd ar gefn y dòn,

Mae’r ieuanc fam o fewn y bwth yn canu,

A’u Halwyn hoff, eu hunig blenny llon

(Er’s mis dechreuodd gerdded cylch y celfi)

Fel seraff glwys o flaen y ty

Yn chwareu gyda Carlo’r ci;

Ac er byrred yw ei gam,

Medra chwareu “wic” â’i fam;

Týr y blodau yma thraw,

Bwyty beth ynghyda’r baw,

Ac o’r diwedd y mae yn llwyddo

I wthio’i fys Ii lygad Carlo,

Gerub tlws dau lydad addien

Yn disgleirio fel dwy seren;

Ar ei ben mae coron euraidd

O fodrwyog wallt sidanaidd;

Ar ei ddwyrudd arlun rhosyn

O ddiniwed bert flodeuyn,

Pwy all fod yn gâs i blentyn?

I’r glust ä cân y fam wanach –

gwanach,

Mae Alwyn bach yn crwydro’n ’mhellach – pellach

O wydd ei fam, yr hon sydd – ha! Mae’r plenty

Yn aberth noeth ar allor esgeulustod;

 

Yn tynnu at y du ofnadwy ddibyn!

Yn union bydd yn ganddryll ar y gwaelod

Un cam eto a bydd –Rhagluniaeth fawr!

Dyna gap y bychan wedi syrthio lawr!

Mae yntau yn! – â golwg wyllt gan ddychryn,

Y fam sy’n ddistaw nesu at y plenty;

Arswyda nesu yn rhy agos ato

Rhat iddo chwareu “wic,”  a syrthio-syrthio!

O gyfyng awr! pa beth a wna?

Ochenaid drom I’r nefoedd ä;

Mewn eiliad, angel yn ei chlust sibryda,

Rhydd gobaith iddi nerth, ei llygaid loewa,

A’i bron, lliwr eira, dýn o’I mynwes allan,

A gyda llais mor fwyn a pheraidd sain clych arian,

Mae’n galw – “Alwyn” – y plenty glyw y llais,

Try ei ben, mae’n edrych ar y fron, a chais

Ymgripio at ei fam, yr hon sy’n rhuthro

I’w wasgu yn ei chôl, ac yn llesmeirio,

Tra’r  weddi hon drwy’t mȋn I’r nef yn esgyn-

“Fy nghalon it’ O! Dduw am achub Alwyn.”

The Baby and the Precipice.

On  a  green  secluded spot on a ragged rock,

That stretches its foot to be washed by the sea,

A   fisherman’s  cosy  secluded cottage

Is  like a hermit enjoying the fresh Breeze;

A  stone’s  throw  from the lonely cottage

Is a treacherous precipice which terrifies  man,

Local  superstition  states  that this  precipice

Is in fact  known  as the gate of death

And in  the  deepest and darkest of nights,

Ghosts  will  come and devour brave men,

They hover above the place with unearthly noise

At   the head of  every  storm; death’s forerunners!

As  the  father fishes on  the waves,

The young mother in the cottage sings,

With  little  Halwyn,  their only child

(who  only started walking a month ago)

Like a holy seraph in front of the house

The   child   plays  with  Carlo his dog;

And even though his steps are Short,

He can still play “catch” with his mum;

He picks some flowers here and there,

And   even  eats some with the  soil,

And at last he manages to push

His   finger   into  Carlo’s  eye,

A   beautiful  cherub   with both eyes

Sparkling like a couple of stars;

On his  head a  golden crown

Of  ringed  silky  golden  hair;

And on both cheeks a rose’s image

A  beautiful  innocent  flower,

Who could be hateful to such a child?

To his ear his mum’s song becomes weaker – weaker,

Little  Alwyn  wonders   further  – further

From his mother’s presence – the child

Is  drawn to the dreadful dark precipice!

Shortly  he’ll be lying at the bottom!

A sacrifice at the altar of carelessness,

One   more  step!   –   Heaven  forbid,

Now his  cap falls down the precipice.

He is petrified with fear

The mother quietly approaches the Boy;

Frightened  of  getting  too  close

In case he plays “catch”  slips  and falls!

What a horrendous   moment  — what to do?

A heavy  sigh towards  the  heavens!

Immediately an angel whispers in her ear,

And  gives  her  hope and  strength,

Her breast as white as snow, she calls,

In a  voice  so  sweet and  mellow

She calls  his name “Alwyn”

He hears the voice, turns his head,

He starts to run towards his mum.

She  embraces  him  in her  breast,

And this prayer rises towards Heaven –

“Oh God my heart to you for saving Alwyn”

 Translation by Catrin Haines-Davies, volunteer at Swansea University