Late as the drowsy curfew bell,
Early and late a voice I hear,
Sound through the echoing village dell ;
A grimy blacksmith, stout and strong,
Sings to the hammer blythe ding dong :
"Foul or fair, whate'er thy lot ;
Strike. the iron while it's hot." "My forge, my anvil, bellows, all,
My prentice lads that round me stand,
Each ready at my beck and call,
To strike with willing heart and hand,
A world in time secured them mine;
I saw the master's strength decline,
And made the old man seal and sign.
"Foul or fair, whate'er thy lot,
Strike the iron while it's hot." "Who won the village belle but I ?
Although she'd gay and gallant beaux,
Ay many as the sparks that fly
Beneath my hammer's heavy blows.
I met her in the woods one day,
I would not let her say me nay,
But I pressed her till she named the day.
So foul or fair, whate'er thy lot,
Strike the iron while it's hot" "Then lads ne'er shilly shally stand,
Of love and life to win the race ;
Stick bravely to the work in hand,
And Fortune,coy lass, quick embrace
For soon the fatal hour shall chime
That knocks us out of tide and time,
So ever heed the blacksmith's rhyme
Foul or fair, whate'er thy lot,
"Strike the iron while it's hot." Notes From the NSW Newspaper The Queanbeyan Age 25 Feb 1874 p. 4.