The Blacksmith. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

How cheerful in the winter's night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!

The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.

While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

Silchester, The Ancient Caleva.[199]

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

On Seeing A Bust Of R. B. Sheridan, From A Cast Taken After Death.[209]

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

On Seeing Plants In The Windows Of Seth Ward's College, Endowed For Widows Of Clergymen, At Salisbury.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

On Leaving A Place Of Residence

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

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The Village Blacksmith

Under a 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 arms
    Are strong as iron bands.

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,
    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,
    An...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Fitzroy Blacksmith

With Apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ("The Village Blacksmith")


Under the spreading deficit,
The Fitzroy Smithy stands;
The smith, a spendthrift man is he,
With too much on his hands;
But the muscles of his brawny jaw
Are strong as iron bands.

Pay out, pay put, from morn till night,
You can hear the sovereigns go;
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home",
In a deep bass voice and slow,
Like a bullfrog down in the village well
When the evening sun is low.

The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,
Onward thr...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Big Smith.

Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.
I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true
That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.

Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?
Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?
If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine?
For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine.

Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him;
His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.
His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels;
I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.

They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but d...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

The Old Labourer. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

Are you not tired, you poor old man!
The drops are on your brow;
Your labour with the sun began,
And you are labouring now!

I murmur not to dig the soil,
For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.

The lark awakes me with his song,
That hails the morning gray,
And when I mourn for human wrong,
I think of God, and pray.

Let worldlings waste their time and health,
And try each vain delight;
They cannot buy, with all their wealth,
The labourer's rest at night.

William Lisle Bowles

The Glow-Worm. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

Oh, what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place
Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace!

It is a glow-worm, still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, O nightingale,
Seem listening to thy song!

And so amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.

William Lisle Bowles

The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son

    The North Star whispers:    "You are one
    Of those whose course no chance can change.
    You blunder, but are not undone,
    Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.

    "When here you walk, a bloodless shade,
    A singer all men else forget.
    Your chants of hammer, forge and spade
    Will move the prairie-village yet.

    "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town
    Beholds your fancies on her walls,
    And paints them out or tears them down,
    Or bars them from her feasting-halls.

    "Yet shall the fragments still remain;
    Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong
    That ivy-vines will not disdain,
    Haunted and trembling with your song.

    "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn,
    Flame high in storms, fl...

Vachel Lindsay