THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. He goes on Sunday to the church, 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 He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard rough hand he wipes Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Our fortunes must be wrought; Each burning deed and thought. G |