| Under a spreading chestmut tree, The village smithy stands. The smiths a mighty man to be, with large and sinewy hands, And the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron. His hair is crisp and black and long. His face is like the tan. His brow is wet with horses sweat, He earns whatever he can, and looks the whle world in the face, for he owes not any man |
