Clink, clink, clink and thud
The blacksmith does his trade,
Clink, clink, clink and thud,
He works on the burning spade,
His children all look up to him,
Look up with awe-ful eyes,
Sweaty beard and glistening arms,
Tremendous respect rise!
His good ole’ wife with the bulging belly,
His dad with the thickety beard,
And the unwed women all hover around,
The blacksmith clinks the spear!
He earns, good sir, he earns em’ bread,
With arms as strong as stone,
Don’t scorn him for his tattered clothes,
Nor frown upon his bleeding wounds,
For after driveling throughout the week,
He thanks lord for the little he owns!