'Tis early morn : The smithy anvil rings.
Its cheerful music sounding ; and the snore
Of big bass bellows : fire leaps with a roar.
Sprays from hot iron as the hammer swings
From sturdy arms and hard and horny hands.
The blacksmith's face aglow, and most intent
Upon the job in hand, until he bent
Hot iron into shape of shoes, hoops, tyres, or bands.
The screech of files, oft with a rasping squeal,
Grates in the vice, which grips with iron jaws
The work in hand : even the hardest steel
The smith will hammer into form with blows,
While at the forge he cracks his cheerful joke--
When people leave him, of his charges talk.
Day after day we hear the anvil ring :
'Tis rural music in the village street,
Oft neighbors there will very often meet,
Some of the things impossible they bring
This man of parts : and he will try them all :
The smith undaunted by the riddles there,
And, strange to say, he only solves his share--
Keen-witted and alert to ev'ry call.
A host of daily "breaks" you will find there :
Points, welds, and sharps ; on these he works his will.
There's not a job he will not try and dare,
However much or little be his skill,
He makes and mends the very best he can—
What more can any bungler, do, or any man ?
All news and gossip every smithy draws,
Slanders, etc., and all other "spice,"
And humor real, but, not always choice,
And may-be secrets, which nobody knows.
Brimful of questions, toiling all the time,
From morn to eve he daily makes or mends,
His labors in a day have many ends.
You see the man behind his sweat and grime,
Stolid his features, yet a knowing smile
Lurks in his eyes, and may-be on his mouth
A combination SMITH of wit and guile,
Most real human he, in very truth.
His earnings daily he may "book or cash,"
For many jobs his charges may be "rash."
The roaring bellows have a dancing sound.
The sulphur blue commingles with red flame,
Out of the blaze hot steel or iron came.
Hammer and tongs ! ten thousand sparks fly round.
The smith while toiling sometimes hums a song,
Anear as hoarse as his big bellows roar.
Or far-off visions known in life before,
Flit through in thoughts which to the past belong.
Stolid and moody, yet with work content,
Into the fire he stares in blazing coals.
Each job he takes is with the best intent :
All men are friends to him, whoever calls.
A son of Vulcan, man of many parts :
His trade the oldest of industrial arts.
--J. E. LIDDLE.
Meekatharra.
Notes
From the West Australian Newspaper The Yalgoo Observer and Murchison Chronicle 3 Apr 1924 p. 4.
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