University of Virginia Library


283

THE SMITH'S CHORUS.

Give us a hand, my mate,
Are we not fellows?
Have we not twenty years
Toiled at these bellows?
Have we not, hand and hand,
Smitten together;
Now with a thunder stroke,
Now with a feather?
Seen the sparks, streaming up,
Iron turn vapour—
Laughed as the bar of steel
Dripped like a taper;
Moulded the leadlike clay,
Plying the bellows,
Then, Roger, take my hand,
Are we not fellows?