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.
