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The Blacksmith. (from The Villagers Verse-book.)

William Lisle Bowles

How cheerful in the winter's night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!

The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.

While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.

(C) William Lisle Bowles
03/10/2020


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