Below my bedroom window in the Corporation Yard
A blacksmith blows his bellows and works there very hard.
He hammers point on picks and things for builders near at hand,
His back bent with leaning as he at his work doth stand.
Hammering on the anvil from morning, noon, till night,
He makes a worthy picture, a monument of might;
As regular with measured beat his hammer clanging falls;
His pattern, Thor of Thunder, back in Valhalla’s halls.
On Saturday and Sunday he does not light up his forge.
I wonder what his name is; is it Alec, Bill or George?
He wears an old green trilby and he smokes a short black pipe,
And the colour of his nose is like an apple over-ripe.
I know one day he will be gone and silent be the place,
But in the empty yard I will still make out a trace
Of a ghostly wisp of moustache, a faint echo of a clang,
And the glint of crystal dewdrop that from his long nose did hang.