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.