Y Cyffylog

'Y Cyffylog (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

Y Cyffylog

A fu ddim, ddamwain breiddfyw,

Mor elyn i serchddyn syw

Â'r gaeaf, oeraf eiryoed,

Hirddu cas yn hyrddio coed?

Aruthr ei grwydr rhwng dwydref,

Oer o was, tad eiry yw ef.

Ni bu un na bai anawdd

Gantho–ai hawdd cuddio cawdd?–

Mewn eiry ermyn aros,

Y rhyn ôd, a rhew ar nos.

Haws oedd mewn castell celli

Ar hafnos ei haros hi

Gan glywed digrifed tôn

Y gog las ddigoeg leision.

Annhebig mewn coedwig Mai,

A chyffur oedd o chaffai,

I rodio, tro treigl anûn,

Tan fargod to tŷ f'eurgun.

Perhôn drannoeth, anoethraid,

Ym ei chael, amau o chaid,

I dyddyn gweirdy diddos,

Ofn oedd yng ngaeaf, y nos,

Na ddigonai, chwai chwedlfreg,

Engyn ar y dynyn deg.

Glân ymddiddan ydd oeddem,

Glud gŵyn, mi a gloywdeg em.

Gwnaeth fraw, frychleidr anghyfrwys,

A dychryn i'm gloywddyn glwys,

Col gylfinferf goferfwyd,

Y cyffylog llidiog llwyd.

Edn brych, dilewych o liw,

O adar gaeaf ydiw.

Modd y gwnaeth, nid maeth fy myd,

Wrth ben bagl wrthban bawglud,

Cychwyn yn braff ei drafferth,

Adain bôl, odd dan y berth

A neitio hyd pan ytoedd

Mewn perth ddu. Nid o'm porth oedd.

Gan faint trwstgrwydr ar lwydrew

Dwy ffilog y taeog tew,

Tygesym ddwyn, ddeugwyn ddig,

Trist oeddem, mae trwst Eiddig,

Golesg frys rhwng llys a llwyn,

Gwylltruthr peisfrych gwahelldrwyn.

Treiddiai yn ffrom wrth domawg,

Trwyddew tail a rhew yrhawg.

Aruthr ei chwedl hocedlaes

A mul ger buarthdail maes.

Ni ŵyr yn llon ar fron fry

Na llais aml na lles ymy,

Na cherddau, medd gwych ordderch,

Drwy nen y llwyn er mwyn merch

Ond arwain, durwaith meinffrom,

Y bêr du a bawr y dom.

Yr edn brych â'r adain brudd,

Bribiwr a'i fagl, heb rybudd

Y caffo, tro treigl gochfrych,

Bolltod braff, mab alltud brych.

Translation

The Woodcock

Was there ever anything, half–dead condition,

so inimical to a merry lover

as long black grim winter shaking the trees,

coldest tryst in the snow?

His path between two towns is terrible,

cold lad, he is the father of snow.

There was never anyone who did not find it hard

(is it easy to hide tribulation?)

to wait in snow for [a girl dressed in] white fur,

this freezing snow, and ice at night.

It was easier to wait for her

in the woodland castle on a summer night

hearing how sweet the tune

of the grey cuckoo with its unassuming tones.

Being in the woods of May

(and that's how one would have it)

is very different to roaming, sleepless wandering,

under the eaves of my bright lady's house.

Should it happen the next day [= after the summer],

by some miracle, that I should get her,

though it's hardly likely, in a snug haybarn,

I'd be afraid that on a winter night

this lad wouldn't be able to satisfy the fair lass,

there'd soon be reproach about inadequacy.

We were having a nice conversation,

me and the gorgeous jewel, lasting regret.

The clumsy speckled thief

gave my lovely bright girl a shock and a fright,

useless spiky beak dripping with food,

the fierce grey woodcock.

Speckled dull–coloured creature,

it's one of the birds of winter.

What it did, it's no friend of my darling,

the filthy cloak on sticks,

was to rush out from under the bush

with a great commotion, battered wings,

and jump around until it reached

another dark bush. It was no help to me at all.

The fat churl's two wings

made such a racket on the frosty ground

that we were convinced, both lamenting bitterly,

we were so annoyed, that the noise was made by the Jealous One,

scurrying pathetically between house and woods,

wild rush of one in a speckled coat with a nose like a spike.

It would stab viciously at a dung heap,

like an auger always in filth and ice.

Its long cunning call is dreadful to hear

and silly by cow pats in field.

It can't make merry chatter up on the hillside,

nor do me any good at all,

nor songs, says the fine sweetheart,

through the treetops for a girl's sake,

but can only wield that thin vicious steel instrument,

a black spike that grazes dung.

That brindled bird with sombre wings,

scoundrel with its snare, may it get

without any warning, tawny wanderer,

a good hard arrow shot, the speckled alien.