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