Monday, July 28, 2014


Under the spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arm;
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long.
His face is like a tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns what ha can,
And looks the whole world in the face;
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge.
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
look in at the open door;
they love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a thrashing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
And sit among his boys;
He hear the parson pray and preech
He hears his daughters voice 
Singing in the village chair
And it makes hi heart rejoice

It sounds like her mothers voice
Singing in paradis;
he needs must think of her once more
How in the grave she lies;
And with a hard rough head he wipes
A tear out of his eye.

Tolling- rejoicing- sorrowing,
Onwards thought life he goes
Each morning sees some task begin
Each evening sees it close,
Something attempted, something done
He earns a night repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee my worthy frind
For the lesson thow hast taught
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Are fortunes must be wrought
Thus on its sounding anvil shape
each burning deed and thought


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