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