LAMENT FOR SION
One son was my darling--Dwynwen!
Woe to his father is his birth.
Woe to him who's left to grieve
for love evermore with no son.
The death of my little die has made
my ribs ache for Sion y Glyn.
I am forever wailing
for the lord of boyhood tales.
The lad loved a sweet apple
and a bird, and white pebbles;
a bow made of a thorn branch,
a flimsy wooden sword;
he feared the pipe and bogey,
he begged his mam for a ball;
he would sing a note to all,
he would sing "oo-o" for a nut;
he would fondle and flatter,
he would get angry with me,
and make up for a bit of wood
and for dice that he loved.
Oh that Sion, pure gentle boy,
were another Lazarus.
Beuno brought back to life
seven who had gone to heaven;
woe, once again, my true heart,
that Sion's soul cannot make eight.
Oh Mary, alas that he lies dead,
woe for my ribs that his grave is closed.
Sion's death is like a stab wound
implanted deep in my breast;
my son, my baby's playpen,
my bosom, my heart, my song,
he was my mind in my lifetime,
my wise poet, he was my dream,
he was my toy, my candle,
my fair soul, my one deceit,
my chick learning my song,
my Isolde's garland, my kiss,
my strength, woe is me after him,
my skylark, my magician,
my love, my bow, my arrow,
my beseacher, my boyhood.
Sion is sending to his father
a pang of longing and love.
Farewell, the smile on my lips,
farewell to the laughing mouth;
farewell now, sweet amusement,
and farewell to games with nuts,
and farewell, ball, for ever,
and farewell to loud singing,
and farewell, my cheery friend,
buried while I live, Sion my son.
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One son was my darling--Dwynwen!
Woe to his father is his birth.
Woe to him who's left to grieve
for love evermore with no son.
The death of my little die has made
my ribs ache for Sion y Glyn.
I am forever wailing
for the lord of boyhood tales.
The lad loved a sweet apple
and a bird, and white pebbles;
a bow made of a thorn branch,
a flimsy wooden sword;
he feared the pipe and bogey,
he begged his mam for a ball;
he would sing a note to all,
he would sing "oo-o" for a nut;
he would fondle and flatter,
he would get angry with me,
and make up for a bit of wood
and for dice that he loved.
Oh that Sion, pure gentle boy,
were another Lazarus.
Beuno brought back to life
seven who had gone to heaven;
woe, once again, my true heart,
that Sion's soul cannot make eight.
Oh Mary, alas that he lies dead,
woe for my ribs that his grave is closed.
Sion's death is like a stab wound
implanted deep in my breast;
my son, my baby's playpen,
my bosom, my heart, my song,
he was my mind in my lifetime,
my wise poet, he was my dream,
he was my toy, my candle,
my fair soul, my one deceit,
my chick learning my song,
my Isolde's garland, my kiss,
my strength, woe is me after him,
my skylark, my magician,
my love, my bow, my arrow,
my beseacher, my boyhood.
Sion is sending to his father
a pang of longing and love.
Farewell, the smile on my lips,
farewell to the laughing mouth;
farewell now, sweet amusement,
and farewell to games with nuts,
and farewell, ball, for ever,
and farewell to loud singing,
and farewell, my cheery friend,
buried while I live, Sion my son.
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