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