I played Bryn Fôn's excellent song - "Rebel Wicend" on the Heritage Matters programme -which is broadcast on SpectrumOnAir each week at 19.00 Tuesday's, 14.00 Thursdays and 18.00 on Saturdays (UK time - but available around the world by clicking the link above.
The lyrics in Welsh then English are posted below -
Mae’n cyrraedd ei swyddfa yn gynnar bob bore
Yn cario ei frîffces ecsetiwtif bach.
“Bore da, Mistar Eliot” a “Diolch yn fawr Rachel,
A chofiwch, dim siwgwr, trio cadw yn iach.”
Ac mae’n eistedd fel sowldiwr o flaen ei brosesydd
A phob pin a phapur a ffeil yn eu lle,
Ac am bump mae o’n ol tu ol i lyw’r BMW
Yn gyrru am adre ar gyrion y dre.
Bob nos wrth droi’r goriad mae’n gweiddi, “dwi adre.
Sut ddiwrnod ges ti a be sy ‘na i dde?”
Ac ar garreg yr aelwyd mae’i slipars yn c’nesu
Ac arogl cartref yn llenwi y lle.
Ond ar nos Wenar daw adre a hongian ei siwt
A newid i’r hen denims cul,
Hongian modrwyau trwy’r tyllau’n ei glustiau
A chuddio y rasal tan yn hwyr ar nos Sul.
A dyna chi fo, yn rebal wicend go iawn,
Hefo’i stic-on tatw a’i dun baco herbal yn llawn.
Yn rebal wicend o’i gorun i’w draed
Ac ysbryd gwrthryfel yn berwi ‘mhob diferyn o’i waed.
Ac ar bnawn Sadwrn mewn denims a lledar,
Crys T heb lewys a’i wallt o yn saim,
Mae’n mynd draw i’r dafarn i siarad a’r rocars,
I yfed Jack Daniels yn lle lagyr a laim.
Ac ar ol ysfed digon mae’r gitar yn dod allan
Ac mae o’n canu y blws a thrio swnio yn ddu.
Son am drallodion genod ysgol yn disgwyl.
Mae o’n teimlo fel deryn ac ymddwyn fel ci.
Amser cinio dydd Sul mae o’n ol yn y dafarn
Yn yfed ei hochor o ddeuddeg tan dri,
Yn siarad yn ddwfn am genod a wisgi
A phob ystum o’i eiddo yn dweud ‘ylwch fi’.
Ond gyda’r nos, cyn gwylio Hel Straeon,
Mae o ar goll ym mybls y bath, digon siwr.
Mae’r metamorffosis drosodd am wythnos fach arall
Pan mae’r rebal yn mynd lawr y plyg gyda’r dwr.
Ac ar fore dydd Llun mae o’n ol yn y swyddfa
A’r cris yn ei drowses yn finiog fel bled.
Mae’r rebal wicend yn edrych o’i gwmpas
Ac yn sylweddoli ei fod oyn mêd
English Translation Lyrics:
He arrives in his office early each morning
And carries his little executive briefcase.
“Good morning, Mister Eliot” and “Thank you very much Rachel,
And remember, no sugar, trying to stay healthy.”
He sits like a soldier in front of his processor
With each pin and paper and file in their place,
And at five he’s back behind the BMW’s steering wheel
Driving back home on the outskirts of town.
Each night as he turns the key he yells, “I’m home.
How was your day and what is there for tea?”
And by the fireplace his slippers are warming
And the smell of home filling the place.
But on Friday night he comes home and hangs his suit
And changes to the old narrow denims,
He hangs rings through the holes in his ears
And hides the razor until late on Sunday night.
And there he is, a real weekend rebel,
With his stick-on tattoo and his herbal tobacco tin filled.
A weekend rebel from head to toe
And the spirit of rebellion boiling in each drop of his blood.
And on a Saturday afternoon in denims and leather,
A sleeveless T-Shirt and his hair full of grease,
He goes down to the tavern to talk with the rockers,
To drink Jack Daniels instead of lime and lager.
And after drinking enough the guitar comes out
And he sings the blues and tries to sound black.
Discusses the woes of pregnant school girls.
He feels like a bird and acts like a dog.
At lunch time on Sunday he’s back in the tavern
And drinks from midday until three,
He talks deeply about girls and whiskey
And each motion of his says ‘look at me’.
But by night time, before watching ‘Hel Straeon’,
He’s lost in the bubbles of the bath, most likely.
The metamorphosis is over for another week
When the rebel goes down the plug with the water.
And on Monday morning he’s back in the office,
And the crease in his trouser is as sharp as a blade.
The Weekend Rebel looks around him
And realizes that he’s made.
https://amzn.to/2ULazgO
