Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get _thee_ to bed.'
There was a little smithy at the comer of the road, In the village where, when life glow'd fresh and bright, was my abode; A little slab-roof'd smithy, of a stain'd and dusky red, An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed; The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green, Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.
High curl'd the smoke from the humble roof with dawning's earliest bird, And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard; The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song, Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll'd the hours along, Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge's clear deep light Through chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.
The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece, The margin-grass is group'd with cows, and spotted with the geese; On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there's a circle of crackling fire, Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man's welded tire! While o'er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red, To the tilted wheel of the huge grim'd ark in the back-ground of the shed.
There's a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod, And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod; In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see! The bands have been placed around him--he struggles to be free: But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm'd, Then loosen'd Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he's unharm'd.
Joe Matson's horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he's seen, An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green; Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws, There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws; The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room, With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.
I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight, The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light: But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air, And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare; How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks, And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!