THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he 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, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. |