Tu hwnt i’r byd,
Tu draw i’r cread mawr i gyd,
Rhy bell i sôn am gylchdre;
Yn uwch na’r cyfundraethau oll,
Pob cysawd wedi mynd ar goll,
A’u cysgod wedi blino!
Llonyddwch y cyfandir mawr,
Lle rhoed gorseddfaingc Duw i lawr—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno.”

Gwlad fythol rydd,
O’r cylch lle dirwyn nos a dydd,
Tywyllu a goleuo.
Dim “bore a hwyr” yn iaith y ne’,
Na haul na lloer yn tremio’r lle;
Dysgleirdeb sy’n eu cuddio.
Perffeithrwydd yn goleuo sydd,
Heb wyro gradd o “ganol dydd”—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno.”

Yr oll fel Duw;
Yr afon bur o ddyfroedd byw,
Fel grisial byth yn llifo;—
A phren y bywyd uwch y dôn,
Heb daflu ei gysgod ar ei fron,
Am na ddaw hwyrddydd heibio.
Y cangau gwyrdd yn tystio sydd,
Dan ffrwythau haf a “blodau dydd”—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno.”

Lliw du y nos
Nid oes ar ddim trwy’r Wynfa dlos;
Lliw gwyn yw lliw’r wlad honno.
Gwyn yw pob sant yn y gwyn fyd,
A gwynion yw eu gynnau i gyd—
Mewn gwyn mae’r oll yn gwisgo.
Dwed edyn gwynion engyl nen,
A’r gwyn o gylch yr orsedd wen—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno.”

Pan fachlud gwawr
Holl oleuadau’r cread mawr—
Pan dywyllo’r mynydd honno;
Pan gaiff y gwyll lywodraeth rydd,
Pan lynco’r nos yr olaf ddydd,
A’r hwyr ddiwedda’n huno—
Ni phyla hanner dydd y wlad,
Lle’r ysgrifenodd bys ein Tad—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno.”

Mae Duw yn dân;
A philyga y goleuni glân
I’w droi’n wisg amdano.
Eistedda ar ei orsedd fawr,
A holl belydrau’r brydferth wawr
O’i amgylch yn dysgleirio!
A’r dydd a ddwed, tra’r orsedd wen
A Brenin y goleuni’n ben—
“Ac ni fydd nos yno!”

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see,—
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, 'Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,'—
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game 'he did not understand.'

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,—
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,—
Which the same I am free to maintain.