The Blacksmith Poem
Under a walnut tree,
The village Smithy stands.
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With heavy and sinewy hands,
And the muscles he possesses,
Are Strong as metal bands.
His hair is crisp and blond taking on the resemblance like the sun,
His face is like the dessert sand,
His brow is wet with daily sweat,
He earns with his every blows,
And he behold the world from in his soul,
As he strike yet another blow.
Week in and week out from day break to eventide,
You can hear his bellows blow,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
You can hear his sound like the village bell,
When the evening sun makes preparation for sleep.
Now the children coming home from school,
They stop to look in Smithy's open door,
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And Catch the burning sparks that fly,
Like chasing after fireflies.
On Sundays he drops his sledge, onward to church is where he goes,
And sits amidst his beloved ones.
He hears the parson preach and teach of the love of God,
He hearken to his daughter's voice,
Singing angelically in the choir, to him it sounds like paradise,
And this makes Smithy's Heart rejoice,
And with his brawny hand he wipes away his tears of joy.
Onward through life the Blacksmith Smithy goes!
Thank you my Smithy for the lesson thou hast taught,
Thus at the flaming forge of life,
Our fortunes must be wrought,
Thus on its sound anvil shaped each burning deed and thought.
© Copyright David Beepathsingh
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