S0022 Old Blacksmith Poem

Black smutted smiths, besmirched with smoke,

Drive me to death with the din of their strokes;

You never did hear such noises at night,

How the lads shout, what a clatter their knocks!

Those crooked dwarfs, they shout Coal! Coal!

And blow their bellows till all their brains burst.

Huf! Puf! says one, Haf! Paf! says the other.

They spit and they sprawl and spin many a tale,

They grate and they grind and they grumble together,

Kept all hot with their hard hammering,

Their leather aprons are hides of the bull,

Their legs are wrapped against fiery sparks.

Heavy hammers they have, and hole them tight,

Strong strokes they strike on an anvil of steel,

Lus! bus! las! das! they snort in turn—

Let the devil get rid of so doleful a tune!

The master lengthens a little, lashes on a less,

Twists both together and tacks on a third.

Tik! tak! hic! hac! tiket! taket! tyk! tyk!

Lus! bus! lus! das! This is the life

Of these clot-heads all. Christ make them suffer!

Can a man have no sleep for the hiss of the quenching?

A. R. Myers, ed., English Historical Documents 1327-1485 (London 1969) p. 1055