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The Village Blacksmith


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Song Name: The Village Blacksmith By: Victorian parlor song
Posted By: WaltP Difficulty: Any
Key: C Genre: General
Harp Type: Chromatic Audio:
Created: 2010-01-07 12:01:45 Modified: 0000-00-00 00:00:00
Rating: Login to VoteAvg Rating:More Votes Needed
Fav Count:0
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Song: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
W: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
M: W.H. Weiss
Victorian parlor song
Key: C

3   4  4   -4    4    -5   4   -4
Un-der a spread-ing chest-nut tree
-3   3   -3    3   2   -1
The vil-lage smith-y stands;
2-2   3    4  -4   4 -5  4  -4   
The smith, a might-y man is he,
  3    -3   4   2  -2*   3
With large and sin-ewy hands;
 3  -3  -3*  -3* 4  -3*  -3   3  -2
And the mus-cles of his brawn-y arms
-3    -5   -3 -4  4  -4
Are strong as ir-on bands. 

4-5  6   -4   4    -3   3*     2    2
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
-3-4  4  -3  6    5  -4
His face is like the tan;
-4   4   4  -4   4   -5   3    3
His brow is wet with hon-est sweat,
3*   -3   -1    3   1 -3
He earns what-e'er he can,
-4    4    4    -5    6   2   2    2
And looks the whole world in the face,
-3  -3   3   4  -5 6  5
For he owes not an-y 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. 

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