Dinogad's Smock listen online
Peis dinogat e vreith vreith.
O grwyn balaot ban wreith.
Chwit chwit chwidogeith.
Gochanwn gochenyn wythgeith.
Pan elei dy dat ty e helya;
Llath ar y ysgwyd llory eny law.
Ef gelwi gwn gogyhwc.
Giff gaff. Dhaly dhaly dhwg dhwg.
Ef lledi bysc yng corwc.
Mal ban llad. Llew llywywg.
Pan elei dy dat ty e vynyd.
Dydygai ef penn ywrch penn gwythwch pen hyd.
Penn grugyar vreith o venyd.
Penn pysc o rayadyr derwennyd.
Or sawl yt gyrhaedei dy dat ty ae gicwein
O wythwch a llewyn a llwyuein.
Nyt anghei oll ny uei oradein.
Dinogad's shift is speckled, speckled,
It was made from the pelts of martens.
`Wee! Wee!' Whistling.
We call, they call, the eight in chains.
When your father went out to hunt -
A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand -
He called on his lively dogs,
`Giff! Gaff! Take, take! Fetch, fetch!'
He killed fish from his coracle
Like the lion killing small animals.
When your father went to the mountains
He would bring back a roebuck, a boar, a stag,
A speckled grouse from the mountain,
And a fish from the Derwennydd falls.
At whatever your father aimed his spear -
Be it a boar, a wild cat, or a fox -
None would escape but that had strong wings.
Listen other Lullabies from England, Scotland and Wales
My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea
My Bonnie lies over the ocean
Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me
Last night as I lay on my pillow
Last night as I lay on my bed
Last night as I lay on my pillow
I dreamt that my Bonnie was dead
Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean
And blow the winds o’er the sea
Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean
And bring back my Bonnie to me
The winds have blown over the ocean
The winds have blown over the sea
The winds have blown over the ocean
And brought back my Bonnie to me
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
But where is the boy, who looks after the sheep?
He's under a haystack, he's fast asleep.
Will you wake him? No, not I,
For if I do, he's sure to cry.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
Oh there's none so rare, as can compare,
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.