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Dafydd Gwynn, the tinker Was walking through the land
On his back his boxes slung His hammer in his hand
Working for a trifle And singing as he goes
In his mouth a bit of pipe And Whiskers ‘neath his nose
Taking up a pitcher A pot or frying pan
Talking as he heats his iron As only Dafydd can
Sitting in the corner One leg across his knee
Covering with solder all The flaws that none may see
We are seeking round us The way the tinker goes
On his back his boxes slung A pipe beneath his nose
Dafydd Gwynn, the tinker Has vanished from the land
So his working for a song Is missed on every hand