Under a spreading chestnut-tree                  He goes on Sunday to the church,
the village smithy stands.                       and sits among his boys.
The smith, a mighty man is he,                   He hears the parson pray and preach,
with large and sinewy hands,                     he hears his daughter's voice,
and the muscles of his brawny arms               singing in the village choir,
are strong as iron bands.                        and it makes his heart rejoice.
 
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,          It sounds to him like her mother's     
his face is like the tan.                        voice, singing in Paradise.
His brow is wet with honest sweat,               He needs must think of her once more,
He earns whate'er he can                         now in the grave she lies,
and looks the whole world in the face            and with his hard, rough hand,
for he owes not any man.                         he wipes a tear out of his eyes.
      
Week in, week out, from morn till night,         Toiling---rejoicing---sorrowing,
you can hear his bellows blow.                   onward through life he goes,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge          each morning sees some task begin,
with measured beat and slow.                     each evening sees it close.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell           Something attempted, something done,
when the evening sun is low.                     has earned a night's repose.

And the children coming home from school         Thanks, thanks to thee, 
look in at the open door.                        my worthy friend,
They love to see the flaming forge               for the lesson thou hast taught.
and hear the bellows roar.                       Thus at the flaming forge of life, 
and catch the burning sparks that fly            our fortunes must be wrought.
like chaff from a threshing-floor.               Thus on it's sounding anvil shaped,
                                                 each burning deed and thought.