Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae sŵn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A’i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.
Mae’r hen delynau genid gynt
Ynghrog ar gangau’r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A’u gwaed yn gymysg efo’r glaw.
Woe is me that I live in an age so perverse,
And God at ebb on a distant horizon;
After him, man, the lord and commoner,
Raising his ugly authority.
When he felt God going away
He raised a sword to kill his brother;
The sound of fighting is on our ear,
And its shadow on poor cottages.
The old harps that were played before are
Suspended on the branches of yonder willows,
And the cries of the boys filled the wind,
And their blood mixed with the rain.