Page:Lollingdon Downs and other poems, Masefield, 1917.djvu/30

 THE BLACKSMITH

XVI

The blacksmith in his sparky forge

Beat on the white-hot softness there;

Even as he beat he sang an air

To keep the sparks out of his gorge.

So many shoes the blacksmith beat,

So many shares and links for traces,

So many builders' struts and braces,

Such tackling for the chain-fore-sheet,

That, in his pride, big words he spake;

"I am the master of my trade,

What iron is good for I have made,

I make what is in iron to make."

Daily he sang thus by his fire,

Till one day, as he poised his stroke

Above his bar, the iron spoke,

"You boaster, drop your hammer, liar."

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