The Blacksmith. (from The Villager's Verse-book.)

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.