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Blacksmith Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  2. The Village Blacksmith by Anna Marie Neis
  3. The Shoeing Forge by J. R. Eastwood
  4. The Blacksmith by Anonymous
  5. The Smith by John Henton Carter
  6. The Jolly Old Blacksmith by Eugene J. Hall

  1. The Village Blacksmith

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    The Village Blacksmith
    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    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,
    And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
    And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
    He hears his daughter's voice,
    Singing in the village choir,
    And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
    Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
    How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
    A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
    Each burning deed and thought.

  2. The Village Blacksmith

    by Anna Marie Neis

    Ho! the village blacksmith,
    All the live-long day,
    The ringing of his anvil,
    Wears many hours away.

    How manfully he lifts his arm,
    And strikes the heavy blow,
    The hammer beating perfect time,
    As he swings it to and fro.

    Listen to the anvil!
    The sound is very dear,
    As across the little park,
    It rings out loud and clear.

    'Tis the only chiming sound,
    That keeps the village stirring,
    For in the quiet little town,
    There's nothing much occurring.

    On a bright and sunny morning,
    When the sky is blue,
    And the grass is fresh and green,
    And slightly wet with dew.

    The farmer boy may be seen
    Coming from afar,
    With horse to shoe, wagon to fix,
    And to get a box of tar.

    Then a little chit-chat
    In a loud and jolly tone,
    The farmer boy hooks up his horse,
    And hurries on toward home.

    No sooner is he out of sight,
    Than others come and go,
    Thus keeping the village blacksmith's shop
    In a continual glow.

    The smith is known for many a mile,
    And greatly esteemed it appears,
    For he has been the village smith
    For five and twenty years.

    But things will change as time goes on
    And cause us deep despair,
    For in the little village shop,
    The smith is no more there.

    For sickness came as it will to all
    Midst pleasure and midst mirth,
    And sad to say in three short days
    He departed from this earth.

    The shock is great to all around,
    Even those who knew him not,
    His death casts a shadow,
    Which will not be soon forgot.

    In the quiet little churchyard
    The smith was laid low,
    Where the green grass and the flowers,
    Will soon begin to grow.

    The birds will sing their songs
    In the bright and genial days,
    Near the lonely grave where
    The village blacksmith lays.

  3. The Shoeing Forge

    by J. R. Eastwood

    A Stone's throw from the market town,
    Close on the lane that wanders down
    Between tall trees and hedgerows green,
    The famous shoeing forge is seen;
    Open it stands upon the road,
    That day and night is overflowed
    By ruddy light that leaps and falls
    Along the rafters and the walls.

    And often, halting on his way,
    The idler from the town will stay
    To hear the sharp, clear, ringing sound,
    And watch the red sparks raining round,
    And the bright fiery metal glow,
    While the strong smith, with blow on blow,
    Hammers it into shape—a sight
    To rouse his wonder and delight.

    Now in the smouldering fire once more
    The bar is thrust; the bellows roar,
    And fan the flame to fiercer light,
    Until the metal waxes white;
    Then, on the anvil placed again,
    Ding-dong, the strokes descend amain;
    Strong is the arm, the vision true,
    Of him who shapes the iron shoe.

    For thee, O reader, is the thought
    That great success in life is wrought
    Not by the idler as he stands
    With wondering looks and empty hands,
    But by the toiler who can take
    Each adverse circumstance and make
    It bend beneath the force and fire
    Of firm resolve and high desire!

  4. The Blacksmith

    by Anonymous

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    We begin to hammer at morning's blink,
    And hammer away
    Till the busy day,
    Like us, aweary, to rest shall sink.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    From labor and care we never will shrink;
    But our fires we'll blow
    Till our forges glow
    With light intense, while our eyelids wink.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink;
    The chain we'll forge with many a link.
    We'll work each form
    While the iron is warm,
    With strokes as fast as we can think.

    Clink, clink, clinkerty clink!
    Our faces may be as black as ink,
    But our hearts are true
    As man ever knew,
    And kindly of all we shall ever think.

  5. The Smith

    by John Henton Carter

    Once a worker in iron stood at his anvil and wrought,
    Proud to think that his labor brought the reward that he sought;
    Singing, with no thought of sorrow, lo! he hammered away,
    Till the king and his courtiers paused at the smithy one day.

    Marked he the man and metal, brought from the furnace aglow;
    Watched he the sparks that scattered, saw he it yield to the blow,
    Then said he to his courtiers, "Note you the smith, and then learn;
    Mind shall rule over matter, bring it to service in turn.

    "Both are the same in nature, hammer and slug are but one,
    And yet one serves the other, obeying, though all undone.
    Take you then heed in the future, be on the battle field—
    Like to the blacksmith's hammer, compelling all else to yield."

    Then they went forth to conquer; the king and his valiant crew
    Stood like a wall, undaunted, like their bright blades tempered, too—
    Smote as the smith had smitten, every blow made to tell,
    Driving the foe before them. Then said the king, "It is well."

    This is the lesson the smith taught to the world with his blow:—
    "Lo! mind shall rule all matter; man shall continue to grow;
    All nature's forces shall serve him—serve him and not ask why—
    Until he gain his birthright, lord of all under the sky."

  6. The Jolly Old Blacksmith

    by Eugene J. Hall

    I'm a jolly old blacksmith, with grizzled hair,
    My face is smutty, I own;
    I'm rough an' tough, but I hev'n't a care,
    I'm able to go alone.
    Clink, clang, clink, clang, clink, clink, clink,
    Plenty to eat an' plenty to drink.
    Rough an' tough an' hearty, you see,
    Wouldn't you like to live like me?

    I'm a merry old blacksmith: I've childern three,
    They're full o' mischief an' fun;
    They're cute an' clean, ez babies can be,
    An' bright ez the mornin' sun.
    Clink, clang, clink, clang, clink, clink, clink,
    Plenty to eat an' plenty to drink;
    Rough an' tough an' hearty, you see,
    Wouldn't you like to live like me?

    I'm a happy old blacksmith, my home is neat;
    I hev no mor'gage to pay.
    My house is snug, an' my wife is sweet,
    Her temper is alwus gay
    Clink, clang, clink, clang, clink, clink, clink,
    Plenty to eat an' plenty to drink;
    Rough an' tough an' hearty, you see,
    Wouldn't you like to live like me?

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