Mi feddyliais yn y boreu 8,7,8,7,4,7 In the morning I expected, That I should long, long ere now, All my eager foes have conquered, That a crown should grace my brow War and tumult, Still distress my wearied ears. In an agony of longing, I await the signal day, When my fetters shall be broken, When from earth I fly away; And for tumults, Hear alone the songs of heaven. |