CANWR GWERIN CYMRAEG
WELSH FOLK SINGER
Cerdd Braich–Y-Saint/ The Song of Braich-Y-Saint
Alaw/Melody - 'Gwnewch Bopeth yn Gymraeg' (Tradd./Trad.)
Geiriau/Words - Robert Williams 'Robin Fawr o Fynytho' ('Sgwennwyd/Written c.1870)
Fe ddaeth yr hen Gadwalad' ar gefn 'i geffyl glas
O Griciath i Bwllheli i g'logi pedwar gwas.
Daeth ataf yn bur addfwyn a'i wep yn wên i gyd,
A ch'logais gan lwyr gredu cawn i fistar clenia'r byd.
Yn fora ar ddydd Gwenar cychwynnais tuag un,
I weini i Eifionnydd, gan adael ardal LlÅ·n
I lecyn bach godidog a'i enw Braich-y-Saint,
Bûm yno am rai dyddia, does achos enwi faint.
Y gelltydd oedd yn sythion a'r cryman yn ddi-fin,
A fynta'r hen Gadwalad', gŵr anodd iawn 'i drin.
Fe godai yn y bora a'i lepan efo'r gwynt,
Gan weiddi, 'Codwch hogia, mai'n chwartar wedi pump!'
Ar ôl i'r hogia godi a mynd â'r 'ffyla i'r dŵr,
A dyfod yn 'u hola, cânt botas, blawd a dŵr.
Fe ordrai bawb i weithio, gan redag fel ar ras,
Ond un felly oedd Cadwalad', gŵr calad wrth 'i was.
Mi gês fy magu gartra, ni chês i 'rioed ddim nych,
Ond ym Mraich-y-Saint eleni dwi'n byw ar fara sych;
Hen bennog ar yr efal a hwnnw'n ddrwg 'i flas,
Ond mi wyddoch am Gadwalad', gŵr calad wrth 'i was.
Ym Mraich-y-Saint annifyr ma gwely trwmbal trol
Lle bûm i'n trîo cysgu ar hannar llond fy mol.
A chig yr hen hwch focha yn wydn a di-flas,
Ond fe wyddoch am Gadwalad', gŵr calad wrth 'i was.
Ffarwél i dynnu rwdins, ffarwel i'r gaib a'r rhaw,
Ffarwél i'r gaseg dena', sy'n gorfadd yn y baw,
Ffarwél i'r tarw penwyn, ffarwel i'r ceffyl glas,
Ffarwél i'r hen Gadwalad', gŵr calad wrth 'i was.
Old Cadwaladr came on his grey mare
From Cricieth to Pwllheli to hire four farm-hands
He came to me quite pleasantly, on his face, a big smile
And I signed up, thinking I’d get the kindest master in the world.
Early on Friday I started on my way
To serve in Eifionydd, leaving LlÅ·n behind
To a lovely little place called Braich-Y-Saint,
I was there a few days, It won’t pay to say how long.
The slopes where steep an the scythe was blunt
And old Cadwaladr was a very difficult man indeed,
He’d rise in the morning with his cheeks full of wind
Shouting ‘wake up boys! It’s a quarter past five!’
After the boys had risen and taken the horses to water
And had returned, they’d eat flour and water pottage,
He’d order all to work, running around like a mad man
But that’s how Caswaladr was, a hard man t’wards his servants
I was raised at home, I never proved any suffering
But this year at Braich-Y-Saint I’m living on dry bread,
a herring on the forge, with a very bad taste
But you know what Cadwaladr was like, a hard man t’wards his servants
In dismal Braich-y-Saint there’s a bed like a carriage
Where I tried to sleep with my belly half empty
And the old Sow’s meat was hard and tasteless
But you know what Cadwaladr was like, a hard man t’wadrs his servants
Farewell to pulling swedes, farewell to the pick’n’shovel,
Farewell to the thin mare lying in the dirt,
Farewell to the white headed bull and the grey mare,
Farewell to old Cadwaladr, a hard man t’wards his servants.