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
- Author: ASJ (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: November 22nd, 2019 01:37
- Comment from author about the poem: I know! Let's all chill out for the weekend and drift back to the times when life was a little less complicated ~ spend the day with my friend Albert Smith in his English country forge. Please enjoy.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 81
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