Bert the Blacksmith

Old Bert the blacksmith tends his coals

In hobnail boots with leather soles;

An oxhide apron draped around

This portly figure, forearms browned.

 

Bright red in face with hair of grey,

Shaping iron to earn his pay;

Hammering, striking all day long,

And beating metal straight and strong.

 

Then, Bert the blacksmith mops his brow

His body starts to swelter now;

His perspiration flowing free,

Reminds him of his mug of tea.

 

He pops his kettle on his fire

For scalding water to acquire;

And soon the whistle shrills its blow

Upon a crimson hearth aglow.

 

Now, Bert the blacksmith takes a rest

He swabs the ashes off his chest;

On a cask he sits at ease

Dining on his bread and cheese.

 

He sups his brew and toils again

His hefty anvil takes the strain;

Forming horseshoes round the bick

Punching nail holes good and quick.

 

So, Bert the blacksmith shoe's a mare,

A mighty dray horse, fair and square;

And taking care with every nail

That she may haul her cart of ale.

 

The drayman pays a crisp ten bob

As Bert has done a sterling job;

The drayman thanks him for his willing,

He bids farewell and tips a shilling.

 

Bert the blacksmith's forge dies down,

Dusk is settling on the town;

Reflecting on the night ahead...

And Bert is thinking of his bed.

 

A voice is calling from the house

He pays attention to his spouse;

"Albert, dear, your supper's due"...

Bert the blacksmith's day is through.

 

                               ASJ