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UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree | |
The village smithy stands; | |
The smith, a mighty man is he, | |
With large and sinewy hands; | |
And the muscles of his brawny arms | 5 |
Are strong as iron bands. | |
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His hair is crisp and black and long; | |
His face is like the tan; | |
His brow is wet with honest sweat, | |
He earns whateer he can, | 10 |
And looks the whole world in the face, | |
For he owes not any man. | |
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Week in, week out, from morn till night, | |
You can hear his bellows blow; | |
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, | 15 |
With measured beat and slow, | |
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, | |
When the evening sun is low. | |
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And children coming home from school, | |
Look in at the open door; | 20 |
They love to see the flaming forge, | |
And hear the bellows roar, | |
And catch the burning sparks that fly | |
Like chaff from the threshing-floor. | |
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He goes on Sunday to the church, | 25 |
And sits among his boys; | |
He hears the parson pray and preach; | |
He hears his daughters voice, | |
Singing in the village choir, | |
And it makes his heart rejoice. | 30 |
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It sounds to him like her mothers voice, | |
Singing in Paradise! | |
He needs must think of her once more, | |
How in the grave she lies; | |
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes | 35 |
A tear out of his eyes. | |
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Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, | |
Onward through life he goes; | |
Each morning sees some task begin, | |
Each evening sees it close; | 40 |
Something attempted, something done, | |
Has earned a nights repose. | |
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Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, | |
For the lesson thou hast taught! | |
Thus at the flaming forge of life | 45 |
Our fortunes must be wrought; | |
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped | |
Each burning deed and thought! | |
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