There once was a man, an old toy maker he.
He twiddled on his wood with care, merrily,
But the wood did not live and 'twas not enough for he
So he sought to find three daughters wee.
And the first he found was a Slavic bold as brass.
She was the eldest, a gay and bonnie lass,
But the toy maker knew that one would never last
So he sought to seek a second daughter fast.
So the second he chose was a wild and merry Celt.
A proper companion for the first, so he felt.
But two was not enough for knowledge that he held.
So he sought a third before the snow did melt.
And the third she was a golden lady fair,
Taken from France from her uncle who lived there.
She was the youngest but he didn't care.
He needed no more so he did swear
But the first she left to seek her fortune bold.
And the other two were fostered from his hold
But all three still do love the gentle old.
These roots grew the Toy Maker Household.
-Written by Gwerydd verch Rhys