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Village Blacksmith, The

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 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 whate'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 bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawney arms
Are 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 word in the face,
For he owes not any man.

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

And children coming home from school
Look in the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar.
And catch the flaming sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like his mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hands he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing,
Onward in life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned his night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fitzroy Blacksmith

Under the spreading deficit,
The Fitzroy Smithy stands;
The smith, a spendthrift man is he,
With too much on his hands;
But the muscles of his brawny jaw
Are strong as iron bands.
Pay out, pay put, from morn till night,
You can hear the sovereigns go;
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home",
In a deep bass voice and slow,
Like a bullfrog down in the village well
When the evening sun is low.

The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some scheme begun
That never sees its close.
Something unpaid for, someone done,
Has earned a night's repose.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith

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 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 whate'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 bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW
___________________
The Pillage Hangman

Under the heading ‘Sentence Just’
the spreading news informed
the sceptics, partisans, non plussed,
that past are Desert Storms
as dust to dust returns – which warmed
hearts though Bagdad’s gone bust.

Fair trial spun to election eve
fell on deaf ears for most, -
who fooled was, and who would deceive,
writ up by Fox, Times, Post.
Will Sauron Saddam’s idle boast
lie still with few to grieve?

Two lawyers for defence before
their leader met their fate,
but Justice, blind, the clothing tore
from strangers at the gate –
No mercy to anticipate -
- the same make, break the law.

Under a leafless green zone tree
the curdled hangman stands
the Kurd, a narrow man is he,
with Halliburton hands;
his captive's Chaineyed iron bands,
prey oily policy.

Five times a day, on Friday, pray,
lost leader homes destroyed,
his motto - ‘bag a dad a day’ -
he honestly enjoyed.
The next in line – he who employed
our hangman of today?

It sounds to him his mother's voice,
singing in Paradise
inspires jihad - the gravest choice
is spurred by need for rice, -
no tears, don’t think about it twice -
crossed keyword calls … rejoice!

The gibbet like the tree itself
was built from root to crown
by contract – golden handshake pelf
for 'count…Tree' Root and Brown.
Soon both unChaineyed tumbling down
will fall from well oiled shelf.

The Bushy hair once crisp, and black,
turns grey, his Texas tan,
his brow, flow wet with nervous sweat,
he steals whate’er he can.
All bet his life span also ran -
regrets may clan beget.

Though Florida's election tags
nudged Bush ahead, his lies
came home to roost in body bags -
eight thousand sightless eyes -
no Gore, yet gore, rags, mo[u]rning cries!
the irony: time lags.

Weak kneed, needs strong, from morn till night,
one hears from minaret
the call resound, unsound ‘tis found
on Sunni days and wet.
I RACK, I RAN - the scene is set
last watch will be unwound.

Under a spreading dark chador
wild women come and go,
in sable robe all set their store
while wailings overflow
from deep despair and worldly care
with fresh, sectarian gore.

Some children coming home from school
looked on sad, damnèd beard,
the burning Bush tries keeping cool
as army highly geared
prepares partitionned future feared
Kurd, Sunni, Shia ghoul.

Some kids, from segregated school,
in hate stared, some in awe,
some spat, some sat a'wilting, drooled,
while others cried for more
Democracy – which means restore
the Sharia harsh and cruel.

Some dream of mortars falling nigh,
some hear the cannon roar,
some catch the burning sparks that fly
from mass destruction’s maw,
some - scattered chaff from threshing floor -
lie silent, others cry.

Some dream of martyrdom enshrined,
not candle, book, and bell,
where blind shall never lead the blind
where crosses signal hell,
where all bid Blair, Brown, Bush farewell
with ninety lashes signed.

Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing,
onward through life each goes;
Each morning sees sore borrowing
each evening, ‘seize, foreclose! ’
One wonders what earns night’s repose
with hangman’s turn to swing?

Under the spotlit mobile phone
both shame and blame were found,
with insults hurled in taunting tone
before he hit the ground.
Excuses lame all must bemoan
sound judgement proves unsound.

Thanks, thanks to you, true dangling friend
for the lesson you have taught
as at life’s flaming forge you bend
the noose where mortals, caught,
see fortunes fall whose rise they thought
would time and tide transcend.

As time and rhyme spin on we see
elections drawing near,
some turn towards posterity
campaigns all out of gear,
all ask what judgement hangs next year
no Hillary set free.

Though Surge pushed back Bush judgement day
it cannot stem Fate's tide,
'divide and rule' - Time's fool in play -
will end to coincide
with Oil major's cash margins wide,
Lebanese disarray.

There is no U.S. army left
to flush from Myanmar
the Junta of ethics bereft,
to China's rising star
too hitched, which rescue teams would bar,
fork tongue and palate cleft,

While oil nears U.S. dollars four
a gallon many feel
a pinch which cuts them to the core,
foreclosing options steel.
Spin pent_a_gon[e] would lies conceal
but most blame D.C. more.

From running water fresh deprived
Iraqis struggle on
as some are tortured, others knived,
as those in Washington
impeachement fear, chicks roost return,
J.A.G's duly tried.

Guantanamo and Ghraib have led
Habeus Corpus suspended,
while Clinton dreams of White House bed
phone rings at 3 - dream ended
by superdelegates suspended
on Barack's lips ahead.

It's back to barracks! Clinton, Bush,
by history entombed,
yet outlook's poor, - no future cush -
for victory assumed
turns turtle, global warming [g]loomed
can greet no winning push.

Christ, Moslem, Jew, three creeds descend
which civil war’s strung taut,
no longer arab, kurd, may blend
as populace distraught
finds hammer, anvil, to book brought, -
like rhyme drawn to due end.

© Jonathan Robin Parody written 10 November 2006 and 20 January 2007, revised and expanded 9 May 2008 for previous version see below followed by the original by Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW 1807_1882 The Village Blacksmith and other parodies

_____________________

The Pillage Hangman initial version

Under the heading ‘Sentence Just’
the spreading news informs
the sceptics, partisans, non plussed,
that past are Desert Storms
as dust to dust returns – which warms
hearts though Bagdad’s gone bust.

Fair trial spun to election eve
fell on deaf ears for most, -
who fooled was, and who would deceive,
writ up by Fox, Times, Post.
Will Sauron Saddam’s idle boast
lie still with few to grieve?

Two lawyers for defense before
their leader met there fate,
but Justice, blind, the clothing tore
from strangers at the gate –
No mercy we anticipate -
- the same make, break the law.

Under a leafless green zone tree
the curdled hangman stands
the Kurd, a narrow man is he,
with Halliburton hands;
his prisoner, bound in iron bands,
sways, prey of U.S. polity.

The gibbet like the tree itself
Is built from root to crown
by contract – golden handshake pelf
for count…tree Root and Brown.
Soon both unChaineyed tumbling down
will fall from well oiled shelf.

His hair is crisp, and black, and short,
his face is like the tan,
his brow flows wet with nervous sweat,
he steals whate’er he can.
All bet his life span also ran -
regrets may clan beget.

Weak kneed, needs strong, from morn till night,
one hears from minaret
the call resound, unsound ‘tis found
on Sunni days and wet.
I rack, I ran - the scene is set
as last watch is unwound.

Under a spreading dark chador
wild women come and go,
in sable robe all set their store
while wailings overflow
from deep despair and worldly care
with fresh, sectarian gore.

The children coming home from school
look on sad, damnèd beard,
the burning Bush tries keeping cool
as army highly geared
prepares partitionned future feared
Kurd, Sunni, Shiite ghoul.

Some children coming home from school
in hate stare, some in awe,
some spit, some wilt, some sit, some drool,
while others cry for more
Democracy – which means restore
the Sharia harsh and cruel.

Some dream of mortars falling nigh,
some hear the cannon roar,
some catch the burning sparks that fly
from mass destruction’s maw,
some scattered chaff from threshing floor
lie silent, others cry.

Some dream of martyrdom enshrined,
not candle, book, and bell,
where blind shall never lead the blind
where crosses signal hell,
where all bid Blair and Bush farewell
with ninety lashes signed.

Five times a day, on Friday, pray,
lost leader homes destroyed,
his motto - ‘bag a dad a day’ -
he honestly enjoyed.
The next in line – he who employed
our hangman of today?

It sounds to him his mother's voice,
singing in Paradise
inspires jihad - the gravest choice
is spurred by need for rice, -
no tears, don’t think about it twice -
the keyword shines … rejoice!

Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing,
onward through life each goes;
Each morning sees sore borrowing
each evening, ‘seize, foreclose! ’
One wonders what earns night’s repose
with hangman’s turn to swing?

Under the spotlit mobile phone
both shame and blame are found,
with insults hurled in taunting tone
before he hit the ground.
Excuses lame all must bemoan
sound judgement proves unsound.

Thanks, thanks to you, true dangling friend
for the lesson you have taught
as at life’s flaming forge you bend
the noose where mortals, caught,
see fortunes fall whose rise they thought
would time and tide transcend.

Christ, Moslem, Jew, three creeds descend
which civil war’s strung taut,
no longer arab, kurd, may blend
as populace distraught
finds hammer, anvil, to book brought, -
like rhyme drawn to due end.

© Jonathan Robin Parody written 10 November 2006 and 20 January 2007
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW 1807_1882 The Village Blacksmith

_________________

Die Walküre

Under a spreading forest tree
The house of Hunding stands:
The host a hasty man is he
And heavy with his hands;
It’s pretty horrible to be
Pursued by Hundings bands.

But this is Siegmund’s fate, who turns
Up at his very door;
For Hunding’s captive wife he yearns,
It’s mutual – furthermore,
Before the evening’s passed he learns
He’s met the girl before.

While hubby settles for the night,
Prepared at dawn to clash,
Sieglinde shows a sword stuck tight
Into the sheltering ash;
To pull it out is Siegmund’s right!
He does – and then they dash.

Meanwhile, above, domestic strife
Attends the gods’ debate,
For Wotan gave the pair their life
And longs to bless their fate;
But Fricka, Archetypal Wife,
Upholds the married state.

So winged Brünnhilde erst rehearsed
Young Siegmund’s life to save,
Is told: ‘Let Hunding do his worst!
His foe is in the grave.’
But rashly she prefers the first
Instructions Wotan gave …

Alas! His spear, with fatal force,
Shatters the ash-hewn sword;
This leaves pour Siegmund dead, of course,
And Poor Sieglinde floored;
But, hoisted on Brünnhilde’s horse,
To rally she’s implored.

For since the lovely girl’s in whelp,
To cheer her up is vital,
Brünnhilde’s sisters aren’t much help
(Valkyrie of the title) :
They merely rush around and yelp,
Awaiting crime’s requital.

Yes, poor Brünnhilde’s forced to pay
By her impassioned sire;
He will not take her life away
But lights an instant fire!
Inside its circle she must stay,
Asleep where non can spy’er.

Intruders won’t disturb her kip,
Unless Sieglinde’s son –
If brn – between the flames might slip …
She clearly sees the fun
Involved in this relationship –
A most peculiar one.

But what is it to us if aunts
Their nephew would embrace?
And anyway, as yet the chance
Is distant; slow the pace
Of unrelenting circumstance
That shadows Wotan’s race.

Mary HOLTBY Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith and Die Walküre

_________________

The Village Boyhood

Beneath the village chestnut
The village boyhood stands
With bright and eager faces
And filthy knees and hands.

Their stones and sticks and faggots
They cast them heaven-high
To fall in various places
And wound the passers-by.

The prickly treasures tumble,
The shining spoils are shown,
And each one clouts his neighbour
And calls the prize his own.

They pierce the taken trophies
That have no lure for age,
And string them for the contests
That once I used to wage.

The battles I engaged in
I now shall fight no more,
I muse on other chestnuts
That fell from boughs of yore;

Till sinks the autumn twilight
And distant fields grow gray,
The fun, the filth, the fighting
Are over for the day;

Till sinks the autumn twilight
And lonely on the lea
And looking somewhat battered
Remains the unconkered tree.

Edmund Valpy KNOX 1881_1971
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith
The Shopping Mall Dentist

Under the blinking fluorescent lights
The drunken Dentist weaves;
A drunken rube in rubber tights,
whose liquid lunch upheaves;
His grin is one of many fights
Left hollow by tavern thieves.

His hair recedes on balding head,
His face a weathered prune;
His brow protrudes like swollen dead,
He hasn't been paid since June;
He ducks his creditors with mounting dread,
He owes then all but the moon.

Day in day out from dawn till dusk,
you can hear his patients scream;
Like a wino wearing fermenting musk,
The nausea he creates is supreme;
And if you should see his one good tusk,
You'll hope that it's all a bad dream.

His techs crawling in from the window sill
They nosily peer in his room;
They love to see his sparking drill,
Where his patients await with gloom;
Like Joan Of Arc waiting to grill,
And Pompeii awaiting its doom.

He goes on Mondays to the track
And bets on ponies to show;
He hears the announcer suddenly hack,
“The horses are ready to go! ”
Martini in hand the race off with a crack,
His horse wouldn’t run with a tow.

He’s lost everything but his boxer shorts
And ends up in jail on a frame;
He met one of his old drinking cohorts,
But couldn’t remember his name;
It turned out the guy was a pick pocket of sorts
who worked the crowd and fingered the dentist with blame.

Extracting – drilling - drinking,
Onward through patients he wailed;
Every morning without even thinking,
Some poor slob’s tongue he impaled;
When morale of his patients was sinking,
He'd gas them until they were nailed.

Thanks, but no thanks my hammered friend
For offering to slaughter my tooth;
Because at the spit bowl near the end,
I reckon I realize the truth;
You’re more concerned with Beefeater’s gin
With an olive and splash of vermouth!

Author Unknown Shy Lady Laurie 2001
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith

_____________
The Village Burglar

Under a spreading gooseberry bush the village burglar lies,
The burglar is a hairy man with whiskers round his eyes
And the muscles of his brawny arms keep off the little flies.

He goes on Sunday to the church to hear the Parson shout.
He puts a penny in the plate and takes a pound note out
And drops a conscience-stricken tear in case he is found out.

Parody UN known Author 0259 Longfellow The Village Blacksmith
___________

The Village Hangman

The hangman's tryst with dreaded death
Comes as an alarum clangs;
He finds law's business very grim -
The human's horrid pangs!
Date with eternity on a limb
Is set - thy sinner hangs!

BRODIE Richard Allen 1942_20xx Anagram Parody Longfellow The
Village Blacksmith

_____________

The Village Beauty

Under a spreading Gainsborough hat
The village beauty stands,
A maiden very fair to see,
With tiny feet and hands,
As stately, too, as if she owned
The squire’s house and lands.

Her hair is golden brown and long,
Her brow is like the snow,
Her cheeks are like the rosy flush
Left by the sunset’s glow,
She greets the lads with a careless look,
She’s the village belle, you know.

Week in, week out, at morn and night,
The young miller comes each day;
“’Tis the nearest way to town, ” he says,
But ‘tis rather out of his way,
And every night he seems to have
Plenty of time to stay.

And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the door and know
That the handsome fellow by her side
Is pretty Nellie’s beau,
Who can hardly tear himself away
When he finds its time to go.

He goes on Sundays to the Church,
And sits in his proper pew,
But his eyes wander off to the transept near,
Where he sees a charming view,
For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best,
With her bonnet of palest blue.

He hears the parson pray and preach
With his outward ear alone,
For he only listens for Nellie’s voice,
And responds in a dreamy tone,
And when she smiles at the carpenter near,
He can’t suppress a groan.

Despairing, hoping, fearing,
Onward thro’ life he goes;
Each morning he sees Nellie,
And each evening, at its close;
She even haunts him sleeping,
And disturbs his night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus at the flirting time of life
Our fortunes may be wrought,
So we cannot be too careful
Over every word and thought!

Author Unknown pseud L.P. The Dunheved Mirror Cornwall March 1880
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith

_______________

The Splendid Bankrupt

BEING A HINT TO OUR LEGISLATORS AND A REMINDER TO THE OFFICIAL RECEIVER

Under its spreading bankruptcy
The village mansion stands;
Its lord, a mighty man is he,
With large, broad-acred lands;
And the laws that baulk his creditors
Are strong as iron bands.

His laugh is free and loud and long,
His dress is spick-and-span;
He pays no debt with honest sweat,
He keeps whate'er he can,
And stares the whole world in the face,
For he fears not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
Prince-like he runs the show;
And a round of social gaieties
Keeps things from getting slow
As the agent of his wife, of course,
His credit's never low.

His children, coming back from school,
Bless their progenitor,
Who's ruffling at the yearly rate
Of fifteen thou. or more,
Nor care they how his victims fly
To the workhouse open door.

He goes on Sunday to the church
With all whom he employs,
To hear the parson pray and preach,
Condemning stolen joys;
It falls like water off his back
His conscience ne'er annoys.

Scheming, promoting, squandering,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some ' deal ' begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Some coup attempted, some one ' done, '
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks, to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus in the busy City life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus does the Splendid Bankrupt thrive
While honest fools get nought!

Arthur A. SYKES

___________

The Village Idiot

Under the chewing chestnut mare
the village idiot stands.
(The idiot's height is normal, but
the horse is forty hands.
Its mass/ bone-section ratio
requires great iron bands

like splints in place along its legs,
so it stands beneath the strain.
Its brow is wet with equine sweat,
unless it may be rain.
It looks the whole world in the face.
It has a horse's brain.

Week in, week out, from morn till night
you can hear it puff and blow.
It has such trouble standing up
it cannot really go.
The locals, out of sympathy,
prefer to call it 'slow'.)

And children coming home from school
look in at the open door.
They see the idiot standing there
all bruised and hurt and sore,
for every time the mare moves foot
it kicks him to the floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
and sits among the boys.
He hears the parson rave and rant;
to him it is just noise.
He smiles as children pull his hair
and hit him with their toys.

It feels to him like his mother's hand
coming from Paradise!
He thinks of lying on the floor,
kicked as he tried to rise,
and how her hard rough hand would wipe
consciousness from his eyes.

Gazing - rejoicing - sorrowing,
onward through life he goes;
each morning sees some task begin,
like trying to count his toes;
a hopeless task when, to this day,
he cannot count his nose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
for bringing with such force
the lesson that the villagers
will hurt without remorse
one of their own with weaknesses,
but are kindly to a horse.

Parody UN known Author 0261
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith
_______________

The Village Blacksmith as He Is

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village blacksmith stands
The smith an awful cad is he
With very dirty hands
For keepers and the rural police
He doesn’t care a hang
He swears and fights, and whops his wife
Gets drunk whene’er he can
In point of fact, our village smith’s
A very awful man.

He goes on Sundays to the pub
With other festive boys
When drinking beer and goes of rum
His precious time employs
Till he gets drunk, and going home
He makes no end of noise
Then, with his poor half-starving wife
He in a passion flies
He pulls her by the hair, from off
The bed on which she lies
And kicks her round the room, and says
Bad things about her eyes.

Smoking, soaking, bullying
Onward through life he goes
Each morning sees a blackened eye
Or else a broken nose
I fear that within the County Goal
Calcraft* his life will close
Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith
For the lessons thou hast taught
By Calcraft, or his deputy
I never will be caught
And to that end I’ll never do
The thing I hadn’t ought.

* Calcraft was the official executioner from 1829 to 1879
pseud Figaro Programme 5 February 1873
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith
______________

Potted Poems Longfellow

My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills
The village smithy stands;
His breast is bare, his matted hair
Was wrecked on the pitiless Goodwin sands,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

Author Unknown 0168
Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith
and Parody William WORDSWORTH

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ultima Thule: From My Arm-Chair

Am I a king, that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

quote by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Evening By The Moonlight

Traditional
In the evening by the moonlight
When my mother had finished working
We used to sit around the fire place
Till the cornbread it was done
And then we all would eat our supper
After that wed clean the kitchen
Its the only time they ever gave us to spare
To have a little fun
Then my daddy used to take his fiddle down
That hung upon the wall
While the silvery moon was shining clear and bright
How the folks would enjoy it
They would sit all night and listen
As we used to sing in the evening by the moonlight
In the evening by the moonlight
You could hear banjos ringing
You could hear them by the moonlight
You could hear my folks all singing
How my mother she would enjoy it
She would sit all night and listen
As we sang in the evening by the moolight oh yeah
In the evening by the moonlight
You could hear folks all singing
In the evening by the moonlight
You could hear my folks all singing
How my mother she would enjoy it
She would sit all night and listen
As we sang in the evening by the moolight oh yeah
In the evening by the moonlight
You could hear banjos ringing
In the evening by the moonlight
You could hear my folks all singing
How my mother she would enjoy it
She would sit all night and listen
As we sang in the evening by the moolight oh yeah

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Village

(Van Morrison)
Little village baby, ain't large enough to be a town
From a little village baby, ain't large enough to be a town
Gotta get away from the city
It's gonna bring you down
Heard the voice of the silence, in the evening
In the long cool summer nights
Heard the voice of the silence, in the evening
In the long cool summer nights
Telling me not to worry
Everything's gonna be all right
There's only two kinds of truth
Baby let's get it straight from the start
There's only two kinds of truth
Let's get it straight from the start
It's all what you believe
Baby in your head and your heart
Heard the bells ringing
Voices singing soft and low
Heard the bells ringing
Voices are singing soft and low
Way up in the mountain, little village in the snow
Raining in the forest
Just enough to magnetise the leaves
Raining in the forest
Just enough to magnetise the leaves
We'll go walking baby with the moonlight shining down through the trees
Little village, way up on the mountainside
Little village baby, way up on the mountainside
Way across the ocean with you by my side

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas Eve

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?

Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.

A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.

So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.

poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Testify

Come a little closer it's a feeling that I can't deny
I was weak, but I never thought I'd speak about the darker side
Is that a ten? I could repent on the side of the road
But, I kept on going yeah I headed for another load
I get up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify
I was laid upon the grave by a preacher's hand I cannot lie
And, I forsake many vows I made to be with you tonight
Could you be the salvation cause I never felt like this before
And, could you lend me your hand because I'm falling back on the floor
I get up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify
On a road outside of nowhere, in the middle of the night
Well I guess I hit rock bottom and the dawn was not in sight
And a Tempest made of fire, onset the sky aglow
And a sweet young thing called out my name
And this is how it goes, she says...
Choir:
"Go boy, can you hear them?
Are you falling through the cracks in your eyes?"
"Go boy, can you hear them?
Are you falling through the cracks in your eyes?"
"Go boy, can you hear them?
Are you falling through the cracks in your eyes?"
Meatloaf: And I got down on my knees
Choir :"Go boy, can you hear them?
Are you falling through the cracks in your eyes?"
"Go boy, can you hear them?
Are you falling through the cracks in your eyes?"
Meatloaf (over the top of the choirs last two repititions):
I get up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground and I'm falling back down
Up from the ground and I testify
I get up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground and I'm falling back down
Up from the ground and I testify
Meatloaf & Choir:
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground and I'm falling back down
Up from the ground and I testify
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground and I'm falling back down
Up from the ground and I testify
Meatloaf:
Every cut that heals reveals a scar that you can never hope to hide
All the pain that you restrain keeps building up deep inside
If you think you're above it then it's you my friend that I implore
You've got to talk before you run
See the night before the dawn
Before you pull yourself off the floor
I get up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify
Choir Singer: Up from the ground yeah, I testify
Meatloaf & Choir:
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground and I'm falling back down
Up from the ground and I testify
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify
Up from the ground in the middle of the morning
Up from the ground in the middle of the evening
Up from the ground in the middle of the night
Oh, I testify

song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Village Green

Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Route March

Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Did you hear the children singing as our troops went marching past?
In the sunshine and the rain,
As they’ll never sing again—
Hear the little school-girls singing as our troops went swinging past?
Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Did you hear the children singing for the first man and the last?
As they marched away and vanished,
To a tune we thought was banished—
Did you hear the children singing for the future and the past?

Shall you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Shall you hear the children singing in the sunshine or the rain?
There’ll be sobs beneath the ringing
Of the cheers, and ’neath the singing
There’ll be tears of orphan children when
Our Boys come back again!

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Reprieve

A MOMENT since, he stood unmoved--alone;
Courage and thought on his resolvēd brow;
But hope is quivering in the broken tone,
Whose bitter anguish seems to shake him now:
Her light foot woke no echo as it came,
The rustling robe her sudden swiftness told;
She pleads for one who dies a death of shame;
She pleads--for agony and love are bold.

'Oh! hear me, thou, who in the sunshine's glare
So calmly waitest till the warning bell
Shall of the closing hour of his despair
In gloomy notes of muffled triumph tell.

Let him not die! Avenging Heaven is just;
Thine, a like fate in after years may be:
Thy forfeit head may gasping bite the dust,
While those thou lovest, plead in vain for thee!
Thou smilest sternly: thou could'st well brave death;
Hast braved it often on the tented field.
So fought my hero on th' ensanguined heath,
With desperate strength, that knew not how to yield:
But oh! the death whose punctual hour is set,
And waited for mid lingering thoughts of pain;
Where no excitement bids the heart forget,
And skill and courage are alike in vain;
Who shall find strength for that?--Oh! man, to whom
Fate, chance, or what thou wilt, hath given this hour--
Upon whose will depends his dreaded doom--
Doth it not awe thee, thinking of thy power?
In the wide battle's hot and furious rage,
Where the mix'd banners flutter to and fro,
Where all alike the desperate combat wage,
One of a thousand swords may pierce him through:
But, now, his life is in thy single hand:
To thee the strange and startling power is given--
And thou shalt answer for this day's command
When ye stand face to face in God's own Heaven.

Bear with me! pardon me this sudden start!
My words are bitter, for my heart is sore;
And oh! dark soldier of the iron heart,
Fain would I learn the speech should touch thee more!
He hath a mother--age hath dimm'd her sight--
But when his quick returning step comes nigh,
She smiles, as though she saw a sudden light,
And turns to bless him with a stifled sigh.
When to her arms a lonely wretch I go,
And she doth ask for him, the true and the brave,
While on her cheek faint smiles of welcome glow,
How shall I answer 'he is in the grave!'
He hath a little son--a mirthful boy,
Whose coral lips with ready smiles are curl'd;
Wilt thou quench all the spring-time of his joy,
And leave him orphan in a friendless world?
Hast thou no children?--Do no visions come,
When the low night-wind through the poplar grieves--
Echoes of farewell voices--sounds of home--
For which thy busy day no leisure leaves?
Some one doth love thee--some one thou dost love--
(For such the blessed lot of all on earth,)
Some one to whom thy thoughts oft fondly rove,
The sharer of thy sorrows and thy mirth;

Who with dim weeping eyes, and thoughts that burn,
Sees thy proud form lead forth th' embattled host;
To whom 'a victory' speaks of thy return--
And 'a defeat' means only thou are lost!
If such there be, (and on thy helm-worn brow
Sternness, not cruelty, doth seem to reign,)
Think it is she, who kneels before thee now,
Her heart which bursts with agony of pain.

'Hark--'T is the warning stroke--his hour is come--
I hear the bell slow clanging on the air--
I hear the beating of the muffled drum--
Thou hast a moment yet to save and spare!
Oh! when returning to thy native land,
Greeted with grateful tears and loud acclaim;
While gazing on thy homeward march they stand,
And smiling children shout thy welcome name:
How wilt thou bear the joyous village chimes,
Whose ringing peals remind thee of to-day--
Will not my image haunt thee at those times?
And my hoarse desperate voice seem yet to pray?
When thy long term of bloody toil is past,
And the hush'd trumpet calls no more to arms--
Will not his death thy tranquil brow o'ercast,
And rob that peaceful hour of half its charms?

When thy child's mother bends thy lip to press,
And her true hand lies clasp'd within thine own--
Will her low voice have perfect power to bless,
Remembering me, the widow'd and the lone?
When they embrace thee--when they welcome thee--
By all my hopes of Heaven, thy brow relents!
Oh! sign the paper--let his life go free--
Give it me quick!'--
'What ho! Raise her--the woman faints!'

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Hear America Singing

I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How Can I Keep From Singing

My life goes on in endless song
Above earths lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?
While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock Im clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
When tyrants tremble in their fear
And hear their death knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?
In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging,
When friends by shame are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

song performed by by Enya
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Voice On The Wind

I

She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

II

Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

III

She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

IV

Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

V

'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saturday Night (Is The Loneliest Night In The Week)

Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week
'Cause that's the night that my sweetie and I
Used to dance cheek to cheek
I don't mind Sunday night at all
'Cause that's the night friends come to call
And Monday to Fridays go fast
And another week is past
But Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week
I sing the song that I sang for the memories I usually seek
Until I hear you at the door
Until you're in my arms once more
Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week
I sing a lonely song
And everything seems wrong
You know saturday night is the loneliest night in the week
And I sing a song for the memories I usually seek
Until I hear you nocking at my door
Until you're in my arms once more
Saturday night is the loneliest night
Saturday night is the doggone lonelest night in the week
Until I hear you at the door
Until you're in my arms once more
Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Despised And Rejected

My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?

'Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.

'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me.'

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:
'Open to Me.'
Still harping in mine ears:
'Rise, let Me in.'
Pleading with tears:
'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
'My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me.'

So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood for evermore.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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East West

East west
Over the ocean
Perpetual motion
Travelling around
No rest
Singing and playing
Night out and day in
Doing the rounds
What a great life this must seem !
Swelled joints
Everything classy
Nothing is tacky
Only the best
Lush girls
Older and dying
Sighing and crying
This is success !
What a great life this must seem !
But when I hear your voice
Singing out
The bells of home
Are ringing out
And I feel all alone
(and I think of my home)
Cold times
A wind through the houses
The bleakness arouses
A longing to leave
Time flew
I wanted to see you
Somehow I could not do
Because of success
What a strange life this can be !
But when I hear your voice
Singing out
The bells of home
Are ringing out
And I feel all alone
(and I think of my home)

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verses by Lady Geralda

Why, when I hear the stormy breath
Of the wild winter wind
Rushing o'er the mountain heath,
Does sadness fill my mind?
For long ago I loved to lie
Upon the pathless moor,
To hear the wild wind rushing by
With never ceasing roar;

Its sound was music then to me;
Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
And my whole soul rejoice.

But now, how different is the sound?
It takes another tone,
And howls along the barren ground
With melancholy moan.

Why does the warm light of the sun
No longer cheer my eyes?
And why is all the beauty gone
From rosy morning skies?

Beneath this lone and dreary hill
There is a lovely vale;
The purling of a crystal rill,
The sighing of the gale,

The sweet voice of the singing bird,
The wind among the trees,
Are ever in that valley heard;
While every passing breeze

Is loaded with the pleasant scent
Of wild and lovely flowers.
To yonder vales I often went
To pass my evening hours.

Last evening when I wandered there
To soothe my weary heart,
Why did the unexpected tear
From my sad eyelid start?

Why did the trees, the buds, the stream
Sing forth so joylessly?
And why did all the valley seem
So sadly changed to me?

I plucked a primrose young and pale
That grew beneath a tree
And then I hastened from the vale
Silent and thoughtfully.

Soon I was near my lofty home,
But when I cast my eye
Upon that flower so fair and lone
Why did I heave a sigh?

I thought of taking it again
To the valley where it grew.
But soon I spurned that thought as vain
And weak and childish too.

And then I cast that flower away
To die and wither there;
But when I found it dead today
Why did I shed a tear?

O why are things so changed to me?
What gave me joy before
Now fills my heart with misery,
And nature smiles no more.

And why are all the beauties gone
From this my native hill?
Alas! my heart is changed alone:
Nature is constant still.

For when the heart is free from care,
Whatever meets the eye
Is bright, and every sound we hear
Is full of melody.

The sweetest strain, the wildest wind,
The murmur of a stream,
To the sad and weary mind
Like doleful death knells seem.

Father! thou hast long been dead,
Mother! thou art gone,
Brother! thou art far away,
And I am left alone.

Long before my mother died
I was sad and lone,
And when she departed too
Every joy was flown.

But the world's before me now,
Why should I despair?
I will not spend my days in vain,
I will not linger here!

There is still a cherished hope
To cheer me on my way;
It is burning in my heart
With a feeble ray.

I will cheer the feeble spark
And raise it to a flame;
And it shall light me through the world,
And lead me on to fame.

I leave thee then, my childhood's home,
For all thy joys are gone;
I leave thee through the world to roam
In search of fair renown,

From such a hopeless home to part
Is happiness to me,
For nought can charm my weary heart
Except activity.

poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Heart at Evening

Toward evening you hear the cry of the bats.
Two b l a c k h o r ses bound in the pasture,
The red maple rustles,
The walker along the road sees ahead the small
tavern.
Nuts and young wine taste delicious,
Delicious: to stagger drunk into the darkening woods.
Village bells, painful to hear, echo through the black
fir branches,
Dew forms on the face.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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