Byta Dy Bres | gwilym-bowen-rhys

Gwae di dy fai di, mi’wti’n c’weirio ein gwely.

Sachdi’n treisio dy wlad,

sachdi’n lladd dy fam

ond i arbed awr ym mhurdan?

Pan mae pob afon yn ddu a phob derwen yn grin,

a phob perllan yn grimp yn y gwres,

yna, tria fyta dy bres.

Ti’n gneud enw, ti’n gneud elw, ti’n addoli dy ddelw.

Ond pan mae dy faes di ar dân

a dy fol di yn wag,

a dy ddagrau yn grimp yn y gwres,

yna, tria fyta dy bres.

A dwyn tyddyn y dyn dall

A dwyn erw’r dyn arall,

Dwyn yr ŷd o dan yr onn

A dwyn gwair y dyn gwirion.

Woe to you your sin, you are making up our bed.

Would you rape your own land,

would you kill your own mother

only to save yourself one hour in purgatory?

When every river is black and every oak is withered

and every orchard is shrivelled and dry in the heat,

then, try and eat your money.

You’re making a name for yourself, your making a profit,

You’re worshiping your own effigy.

But when your field is on fire, and your stomach is empty

and all your tears dried up in the heat,

then, try and eat your money.

You steal the blind man’s cottage

and steal another man’s acre.

You steal the grain from under the ash tree

and steal the crops from the innocents.