Ymddiddan â'r Cyffylog

Ymddiddan â'r Cyffylog (Conversing with the Woodcock) 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

Ymddiddan â'r Cyffylog

'Tydy ehediad tewdwrf,

Taer gyffylog, lidiog lwrf,

Manag, edn mynog adain,

Mae dy chwŷl; mad wyd a chain.'

'Ffest a glew y mae'n rhewi,

Ffo ydd wyf, myn fy ffydd i,

Ar hynt o'r lle bûm yr haf,

Ar guert rhag eiry gaeaf.

Rhyw gof dig, rhew gaeaf du

A'i luwch ni'm gad i lechu.'

'Edn, yt hiroedl ni edir,

Ederyn hardd duryn hir.

Dyred, na ddywed ddeuair,

Lle mae a garaf, lliw Mair,

Lle gofrwysg gerllaw gofron,

Lle claer tes, lle clywir ton,

I ochel awel aeaf,

O ras hir, i aros haf.

'O thry i'th ogylch, iaith ddrud,

Treiglwr, chwibanwr traglud,

 bollt benfras a bwa,

A'th weled, ŵr, i'th wâl da,

Na chudd er ei lais, na chae

Dy lygad dan dy loywgae.

Eheda, brysia rhag brad

A thwyll ef o'th ddull hoywfad

O-berth-i-berth, drafferth drwch,

O-lwyn-i-lwyn anialwch.

Glân dy dro, o glŷn dy droed

I mewn magl ym min meigoed,

Na fydd, dilonydd dy lam,

Wrth gryngae, groglath gringam.

Tor yn lew i am d'ewin

Â'th dduryn cryf wyth rawn crin;

Trist big, hen goedwig a gâr,

Trwyddau adwyau daear.

'Disgyn heddiw ger rhiwallt

Is tŷ gwen, ys teg ei gwallt,

A gwybydd, er delw Gybi,

Ger rhiw, a yw gywir hi.

Gŵyl ei thro, gwylia a thrig

Yno, ederyn unig.'

'Bai reitiaf dy rybuddiaw,

Tydi, fab teg arab: taw!

Rhywyr, mau ofn y rhewynt,

Y gwylir hi, gwael yw'r hynt;

Eres hyd y bu'n oeri,

Aeth arall hoywgall â hi.'

'Os gwir, edn, mau ehednwyf

Is gil serch, ysgeulus wyf,

Gwir a gant, gwarant gwiwras,

Y rhai gynt am y rhyw gas:

"Pren yng nghoed"—mawroed yw'r mau—

"Arall â bwyall biau."'

Translation

Conversing with the Woodcock

'You, bird of loud commotion,

eager woodcock, with an angry way,

tell [me], bird of noble wing,

where are you going; you're good and fair.'

'It's freezing hard and fast,

I'm fleeing, by my faith,

on a journey from where I was in the summer,

to shelter from the winter snow.

Some harsh memory, the ice of black winter

and its snowdrift won't let me stay.'

'Bird, you have not been granted a long life,

fine bird with a long beak.

Come (don't say two words)

to where is the one I love, of the colour of Mary,

a merry place by a gentle slope,

a fine place with warm weather, where a wave is heard,

to shelter from the winter breeze,

by a long blessing, to wait for summer.

'If there comes close to you (bold language)

a wanderer, a very persistent whistler,

with a broad-headed arrow and a bow,

and he sees you, man, in your fine lair,

don't hide because of his voice, don't close

your eye under your clear barring.

Fly, hurry from treachery,

and deceive him in your lively and good way,

from hedge to hedge, unfortunate trouble,

from copse to copse in wasteland.

Fair is your movement, if your foot should stick

in a trap at the edge of small trees,

don't yield, restless your movement,

to a cockshoot (?), bent and withered snare.

Cut strongly from around your claw

with your strong beak eight brittle horsehair twine;

sad beak, he loves old woods,

augur of the earth's breaches.

'Land today by a wooded slope

below the girl's house, fair is her hair,

and find out, by Cybi's image,

by the slope, whether she is faithful.

Watch her movements, watch and wait

there, lonely bird.'

'It's best to warn you,

you, fair talkative lad: be quiet!

It's too late (I fear the icy wind)

to watch her, the doing is poor;

it's strange how long she/it has been getting colder,

another lively and clever man has taken her.'

'If it is true, bird (I have a passion that flies

after love), [that] I am abandoned,

it is true what (warrant of good grace)

they of olden times sang of such bad situations as this:

"A tree in the wood"—I have great longing—

"It's the other man with the axe who owns it."'