Y Gog

Y Gog (The Cuckoo) is a poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym. The text and translation is taken from http://www.dafyddapgwilym.net, published by the Welsh Department of Swansea University. Details regarding the manuscripts can be found at the same website.

Text

Y Gog

'Dydd da yt, y gog serchogfwyn

Ei llais ar ganghenfrig llwyn,

Cloc y dail, clicied aelaw,

Cloch aberth y drawsberth draw.

P'le buost, edn diwednlais?

Pa wlad bell? Plu yw dy bais.'

'Bûm ynglŷn megis dyn dall

Bedeiroes mewn byd arall.

Claf fûm a gwan o anun,

Collais fy harddlais fy hun.

Sefyll dan yr irgyll 'rwyd,

Myn Pedr, ni wn pwy ydwyd.'

'Myfi yw'r bardd digrifair

Mawrserch fryd, myn mawlbryd Mair,

A'th yrrodd, ni'm gwahoddes,

Wtla o'r tir, at eiliw'r tes.'

'Henwa, ddyn ffraeth hiraethnych,

Henw'r Gymraes walltlaes wych.'

'Hawdd y medrwn, gwn ganclwyf,

Henwi gwen, dihunog wyf:

Es ac Ef a llythr hefyd,

En ac A, dwg hynny i gyd.'

'Erchis gwen, eurchwys ei gwallt,

D'annerch dan frig bedwenallt.'

'Moes arwydd — drwg y'm llwyddwyd,

Madws oedd, ai mudes wyd? —

Y ddyn, llawer annerch a ddwg,

Fain oedd ŵyl, fwynaidd olwg.'

'Hir y byddwn, gwn gellwair,

Ar frig llwyn yn gorllwyn gair,

Oni ddoeth, byd hagrnoeth hyll,

Od tew a gaeaf tywyll.

Euthum gan oerwynt trumnoeth

Gyda'r dail, gwiw awdur doeth.'

'Mae'r arwydd o'r mawr arail,

Y gog adeiniog o'r dail?'

'Cyffylog anserchogfwyn,

Coch westai, addawsai'i ddwyn

Pan oedd — och arwain pìn iâ! —

Du y dom, yn dywod yma.'

'Pa bryd y doeth, gyw noethfrych?'

'Gŵyl y Grog i gil y gwrych.'

'Ynfyd fu â'i anfad fêr,

Ysgeulus edn ysgeler.

Gwn ei ladd, llid ergydnerth,

Gŵr â bollt dan gwr y berth.

Dwg hediad, deg ei hadain,

Dos eilwaith at f'anrhaith fain.

Dwg hi dan frig coedwig cyll,

Disgyn dan ledu d'esgyll.

Lateies, dwg gae Esyllt,

Loywlais wawd, ferch liwlas wyllt.

Dyro, a hed ar fedwlwyn,

Lythr i'r ferch lathrair fwyn.

Dywaid erchi, f'enaid ferch,

Ohonof fi ei hannerch.

Sŵn cloc mewn perth, ni'th werthir,

Swyddoges gwŷdd hafddydd hir.

Anwybod wyd, gog lwydfain,

A neawdr wyd yn y drain.

Hed o fedwen ganghenlas

Ar bren plan garbron y plas.

Mwyn o drebl, myn di rybudd

I'r eurloer deg ar liw'r dydd,

A dwg wen eurwallt bennoeth

Allan i 'mddiddan, em ddoeth.

O berth i berth anferthol

Minnau a ddo' hyd yno'n d'ôl.

Drwy dy nerth di a'r Rhiain,

Dygwn y ferch deg wen fain.'

Translation

The Cuckoo

'Good day, cuckoo whose voice is gentle and lovely

upon a grove branch,

the leaves' clock, a persistent latch,

sacring–bell of the sturdy thicket yonder.

Where have you been, mild-voiced bird?

In which distant land? Your coat is made of feathers.'

'I've been stuck like a blind man

for four lifetimes in another world.

I was sick and weak from sleeplessness,

I lost my own sweet voice.

You're standing beneath the green hazels,

by Peter, I don't know who you are.'

'I'm the poet of witty speech,

intent on great love, by Mary's lauded beauty,

who sent you (she did not invite me,

an outlaw from that land) to the sun–bright maid.'

'You eloquent man who's sick with longing,

say the name of the fine Welsh maid with the flowing hair.'

'It would be easy for me (I have a hundred wounds)

to name the girl, I cannot sleep:

S and E and another letter too,

N and A, bring those together.'

'The girl, with hair like droplets of gold,

asked me to greet you beneath the branches of a birch grove.'

'Give me the sign – I've prospered badly,

it's about time, are you a mute? —

of the slender maid (she brings many greetings)

who was gentle, she of pleasant aspect.'

'I was a long time (I know mockery)

on the crest of a grove awaiting a word,

until there came (desolate, haggard world)

thick snow and dark winter.

I went, because of a bleak chill wind,

along with the leaves, wise and worthy author.'

'Where's the sign from that long watch,

winged cuckoo of the leaves?'

'An unkindly woodcock,

mottled red visitor, promised to bring it

when he — alas that he bore a pin of ice! —

was coming here, black [bird] of the dunghill.'

'When did he come, the bare speckled chick?'

'On the Feast of the Cross to the corner of the hedge.'

'He was foolish, he and his evil spear,

that negligent, wicked bird.

I know that a man with a bolt (with all the fury of a blow's force)

killed him beneath the thicket's edge.

Take flight, fair–winged bird,

return once more to my slender darling.

Bring her below the branches of a hazel grove,

alight and spread your wings.

Messenger of love, take Esyllt's garland

(a bright–voiced song), wild blue grey girl.

Give (and fly upon a birch grove)

a letter to the gentle girl of dazzling speech.

Say that I (my darling soul)

am requesting to greet her.

Sound of a clock in a thicket, you won't be sold,

officer of the trees on a long summer day.

You are unknowing, slim grey cuckoo,

and amongst the briars you are neutral.

Fly from a green–branched birch

onto a planted tree beside the mansion.

A pleasant treble, be sure to warn

the fair golden moon in the light of day,

and bring the bare–headed girl with the golden hair

outside to converse, wise gem.

From one great bush to another

I'll follow you there.

Through your power and that of the Virgin,

we'll capture that beautiful, slim, fair–skinned girl.'