The Blacksmiths

Swart smeked smithes, smatered with smoke,
Drive me to deeth with din of here dintes.
Swich noise on nightes ne herde men never,
What knavene cry and clatering of knockes.

The cammede kongons cryen after "Cole, cole!"
Blowen here bellewes that al here brain brestes.
"Huf, puf," saith that oon, "haf, paf," that other.
They spitten and sprawlen and spellen many spelles
They gnawen and gnasshen, they grones togidere,

The Blacksmiths, The Blacksmiths,
The Blacksmiths, The Blacksmiths,
The Blacksmiths

Hevy hamres they han that hard been handled,
Stark strokes they striken on a steeled stokke.
"Lus, bus, las, das," routen by rowe
Swich doleful a dreem the devil it to drive
The maister longeth a litel and lassheth a lesse,

The Blacksmiths, The Blacksmiths,
The Blacksmiths, The Blacksmiths,
The Blacksmiths
May no man for bren-wateres on night han his rest