by Anonymous Under the spreading chestnut tree The village blacksmith stands The smith an awful cad is he With very dirty hands For keepers and the rural police He doesn't care a hang He swears and fights, and whops his wife Gets drunk whene'er he can In point of fact, our village smith's A very awful man. He goes on Sundays to the pub With other festive boys When drinking beer and goes of rum His precious time employs Till he gets drunk, and going home He makes no end of noise Then, with his poor half-starving wife He in a passion flies He pulls her by the hair, from off The bed on which she lies And kicks her round the room, and says Bad things about her eyes. Smoking, soaking, bullying Onward through life he goes Each morning sees a blackened eye Or else a broken nose I fear that within the County Goal Calcraft* his life will close Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith For the lessons thou hast taught By Calcraft, or his deputy I never will be caught And to that end I'll never do The thing I hadn't ought. * Calcraft was the official executioner from 1829 to 1879
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