Florrie fach – Little Florrie

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.

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.