THE BLACKSMITH

The blacksmith at his forge he stands

With hammer flung above his head,

While earnest sweat rolls down his brow.

With tawny hands he’s working now,

For I can hear his anvil ring

When all is still and dead. 

With flaming face beside the glow

His mate does wearily stand,

For night has come

And all is dumb,

And sleepily home he’ll plod

O’er the snowclad land.

 

Willie Johnston Age 11

Tullygrawley School