His old forge is still there,

But now derelict and grey

No more bright sparks, no fire to flare,

Just dark inside all day.

 

The anvil’s music plays no more,

The stone trough’s black and dry,

The bellows blowing days are o’er,

No smoke to blind the eye.

 

No hairy hoof, no rasp or shoe

To cool with sizzling sound,

No echo of the hammer’s blow

Just swallows darting round.

 

On old stone walls now ivy grow,

Briars spread thick and tall,

Old blacksmith Nick is now asleep

Inside the graveyard wall.

 

No more he’ll beat the iron red

Into his works of art,

The blacksmith and his trade are dead

And too his gentle heart.

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