Gwaith Goronwy Owen Cyf II/Y Pedwar Mesur ar Hugain

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Gwaith Goronwy Owen Cyf II gan Goronwy Owen golygwyd gan Owen Morgan Edwards

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Y PEDWAR MESUR AR HUGAIN.
[At Richard Morris, Ion. 2, 1754]

DYMA fу hen gyfaill anwylaf, y Parch. Huw Williams, yn awr periglor Aberffraw yn Mon, wedi gyrru imi Ramadeg Siôn Rhydderch i'm hyfforddio yn yr hen gelfyddyd. Nid yw 'r Gramadeg hwnnw, e wyr Duw, ond un o'r fath waelaf; eto y mae 'n well na bod heb yr un; canys y mae ynddo engraphau o'r "Pedwar Mesur ar Hugain"; ac y mae hynny yn fwy nag a welswn i erioed o'r blaen. Disgwyl yr oeddwn weled ryw odidog ragoriaeth o gywreindeb gorchestol rhwng gwaith y beirdd o'r oesoedd diweddaraf; sef, Dafydd ap Gwilym ac eraill, a gwaith trwsgl yr hen feirdd gynt yn amser Taliesin, Llywarch Hen, Cynddelw, a'r cyffelyb; ond, i'm mawr syndod, nid oedd hynny ond siomedigaeth.

I find that all the metres, despised and antiquated as they are, were really what all compositions of that nature should be; viz., lyric verses adapted to the tunes and music then in use. Of this sort were the several kinds of Englynion, Cywyddau, Odlau, Gwawdodyn, Toddaid, Trybedd y Myneich, a Clogyrnach, which to any one person of understanding and genius that way inclined, will appear to have in their composition the authentic stamp of genuine lyric poetry, and of true primitive antiquity. As to the rest—I mean Gorchest y beirdd, Hupynt hir a byr—the newest, and falsely thought the most ingenious and accurate I look upon them to be rather depravations than improvements in our poetry; being really invented by a set of conceited fellows void of all taste, and at a time when the tunes of the ancient metres were no more known than those of the odes of Horace are now. What a wretched, low, grovelling thing that Gorchest y beirdd is, I leave you to judge. And I would, at the same time, have an impartial answer, whether the old despised, exterminated, and, I had almost said, persecuted Englyn milwr, has not something in it of antique majesty in its composition. Now, for goodness' sake, when I have a mind to write good sense in such a metre as Gorchest y beirdd, and so begin, and the language itself does not afford words that will come in to finish with sense and cynghanedd too, what must I do? Why, to keep cynghanedd I must talk nonsense to the end of the metre; as my predecessors in poetry were used to do to their immortal shame, and cramp and fetter good sense, while the Dictionary is all overturned and tormented to find out words of like ending, sense or nonsense. And besides, suppose our language were more short, comprehensive, and significant than it is— which we have neither reason nor room to wish— what abundance of mysterious sense is such a horrid, jingling metre of such a length able to contain? an Iliad in a nutshell, as they say. In short, as I understand that it and its fellows were introduced by the authority of an Eisteddfod, I wish we had an Eisteddfod again to give them a dimittimus to some peaceable acrostic land, to sport and converse with the spirits of deceased puns, quibbles, and conundrums of pious memory. Then should I gladly see the true primitive metres reinstated in their ancient dignity, and sense regarded more than a hideous jingle of works, which hardly bear sense. But what would I be at again? I must not expect to see these things till the antiquated crwth a thelyn rawn are in fashion, which I much fear is not likely to be within this century.