October, the huntsman, rouses
The winds on a horn of gold;
And from the trees the harassed leaves,
Weary, have loosed their hold,
Gone-to-earth, from the cold.

Daw'r Hydref megis heliwr
I ddeffro'r gwynt a'i gorn a aur,
O'r coed, gollynga'r deilios blin eu gafael,
Yn ôl i'r ddaear rhag yr oerni.