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TLYSAU PENNILLION, or POETICAL BLOSSOMS, and PASTORALS. Gwyn eu byd yr adar gwylltion
How happy is the wild-fowl's state ! Hwy gånt vyn’d i'r van y vynnon ;
To the sea, or mountains flying ; Weithiau i'r môr, ac'weithiau i'r mynydd,
True and constant to its mate, A dyvod adrev yn ddigerydd.
Free and happy, living, dying.
Ni bu verch erioed gan laned,
There never was a maid so fair, Ni bu verch erioed gan wynned,
There never was such shape and air ; Ni bu néb o verched dynion,
There never was of woman kind, Nés na hon i dorri'nghalon.
One half so suited to my mind.
000000000000000000000000000000000 Trwm yw'r plwin, a thrwm yw'r cerrig,
Sad, and heavy finks the stone, calon pób dyn unig ;
On the lake's smooth surface thrown; Trymma peth dan baul a lleuad,
Man opprefld by sorrow's weight
Sadly finks beneath his fate;
Is to love, and bid farewel!
000000000000000000000000000000000 Gwych gan gerlyn yn ei wely,
Happy the miser e'er will be, Glywed fên y troellau'n nyddu !
His wealth to see augmenting round ; Gwych gan innau Duw a’drycho,
Bụt that is gay which pleaseth me, Glywed fiôn y tannau'n tiwnio !
When notes agree with voices crown'd! 000000000000000000000000000000000
Wild o'er the main the tempest flies,
The radiant sun deserts the skies; Gwynt ar vór, a haul ar vynydd,
Grey stones the naked heath deform, Cerrig llwydion yn lle coedydd ;
And loud and piteous howls the storm ; A guêplanod yn lle dynion,
Shrill screams the hungry gulis between,
And defolation blasts the scene.
amled yn y
As oft in the market the skin of the Lamb Groen yr Oen; a chroen y Ddavad;
As the skin of the Ewe is seen : A chan amled yn y llan,
Nor more common in church-yards tobury the dame, Gladdu'r Verch, a chladdu'r Vam !
Than her daughter of blooming fifteen.
000000000000000000000000000000000 Mynd i'r ardd i dorri pwysi,
breast a nosegay chusing, Gwrthod lavant, gwrthod lili,
Every fragrant flow'r refusing ; Gwrthod mintys, a rhós cochion,
I pass'd the lilies, and the roses, A Dewis pwyl o ddanadl poethion !
And of the nettle made my posies * ! 000000000000000000000000000000obo
Gwyn vy m’d, na vawn mor happus,
From pleasure's universal stores,
Ve gair cyvoeth ond cynnilo,
Beauty, too venal, may be hir’d, Ve gair tír ond talu 'm dano ;
And land be purchal’d, wealth acquir’d; Ve gair glendid ond ymovyn ;
Bur happiness that ne'er was bought, Ni chair mwynder, ond gan Rywun.
Muft in One fair-one's arms be fought. * Alluding to the choice of a wife.
TLYSAU PENNILLION, or POETICAL BLOSSOMS, and PASTORALS.
Some Fair there is, fome chosen Fair,
Whose charms, my constant thought and care,
My sleeping breast too keenly move,
And wake me from the dreams of love.
Should I lose my fairest love,
For a dove there's still a dove
Somewhere or other to be found;
At heart's-ease may she ever be!
What-ever heav'n designs for me,
May she in peace and joy abound!
In wintry months the Cuckoo will not sing ;
Nor will the Harp resound without a string;
With one bright thought the bosom cannot glow,
Opprefs'd by grief, and overcome by woe.
Whispers I've heard, and harsh report,
And half the world reprove the rest,
But none in all this vast resort,
Who much of their own faults confeit.
Nectar of bees, not Bacchus here behold,
Which British Bards were wont to quaff of old ;
The berries of the grape with furies (well,
See also page 210
In hén, ac yn ieuangc, yn gall, ac yn fól,
The men will be courting, tho' me they despise,
Young women and old, both the foolish, and wise
Ah, why am I doom'd to escape their fond view,
When I'am as fair, as the Nymphs they pursue ?
What though the journey's long I trow,
Yet hence to Havod Lom I'll go ;
There chanting many a tuneful fit
Safe in the chimney-corner fit,
And, haply, on that happy fill,
The morn's return shall find me still.
The stage of life we all must leave,
And death will yield us ease;
As well may love our breath bereave,
As some more flow disease.
Ye, light of foot, who tun for Fame,
With manly bloom elate;
Out-strip-you'll gain a deathless name
The winged shaft of Fate.
Yn mhob gyhare
Caniad y Góg i Veirionydd*.
The Cuckoo's Song to Meirionydd.
What e'er I've seen beneath the sky,
To chear the heart, and charm the eye,
The sprightly board, the sparkling glass,
While swift and sweet, the minutes pass ;
All these, beside her rivers clear,
Of dear Meirionydd's plains appear.
To break the sods, and draw the chain,
The sturdy Ox will stoutly strain
O'er furrows stiff, and fallow dales,
His nervous vigor never fails :
Far stronger chains to draw the heart,
Meirionydd's matchless Maids impart.
Tho, dark and dreary, bleak and bare,
Meirionydd's rugged rocks appear ;
Tho'on her mountains nature frowns,
Contentment ev'ry valley crowns.
Who could expect the Cuckoo's song,
The mouldring mountain-heath among ?
How finely form'd in shape, and face,
The ruddy Nymphs of rural race !
Where can such-industry be seen,
As on the crowded village green?
Ah ! who alone all hearts can gain ?
Meirionydd's blooming village train.
Fair in the Dee's delightful streams,
The filver-Shining Salmon seems;
Fair, the Thrush's mottled breast,
Brooding o'er her mosfy nest,
But fairer, lovelier, to my mind,
Are dear Meirionydd's Damsels kind.
Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free,
Dear to the bird is liberty ;
Dear to the Babe, to be carefl'd,
And fondled on his Nurse's breast
But in my heart I hold more dear,
Meirionydd's dusky deserts drear,
How sweet the Harp's harmonious found,
When the alternate Rhymes go round:
What for the Mifer's hoard care we,
The happy fons of Harmony?
But softer, sweeter, every strain,
Sung by Meirionydd's tuneful Train.
On sea, or shore, where e'r I range,
Tho' oft the busy scene I change,
No reft I find; but anxious roam,
To spend my happiest hours at home,
Meirionydd, matchless Land, divine,
My very heart, and soul are thine.