The village blacksmith (John Liptrot Hatton)

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• (Posted 2019-10-01)  CPDL #55492:         

Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2019-10-01).   Score information: A4, 11 pages, 141 kB   Copyright: CPDL

Edition notes: ATTB version. MusicXML source file(s) in compressed .mxl format.

• (Posted 2019-09-02)  CPDL #55240:         

Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2019-09-02).   Score information: A4, 10 pages, 134 kB   Copyright: CPDL

Edition notes: SATB version. MusicXML source file(s) in compressed .mxl format.

General Information

Title: The village blacksmith
Composer: John Liptrot Hatton
Lyricist: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicings: SATB or ATTB

Genre: Secular, Partsong

Language: English
Instruments: Keyboard

First published: 1875 in Novello's Part-Song Book (2nd series), Vol. 6, no. 192
    2nd published: 1875 in Novello's Part-Song Book (2nd series), Vol. 7, no. 233

Description:

External websites:

Original text and translations

English text

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
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,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.