Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are as strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns what 'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
for he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his belows blow;
You can hear him swing hid heavy sledge,
With measured beat and blow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Sarapin, in the year 525 AF.