The blacksmith rings the toning steel
All day from morn till night,
And sparks are flying through the forge
Like a village all in light.
And up and down the horses come
With broken hooves and shoes,
The blacksmith blows the roaring fire;
He has no time to lose.
And when the last horse goes away
He starts some other thing,
But when the next one hobbles up,
The anvil begins to ring.
B. Johnston Age 14