With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge,
By the anvil his livelihood got;
With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge;
And struck — while his iron was hot.
By forging he lived, yet never was tried,
Or condemned by the laws of the land;
But still it is certain, and can n't be denied,
He often was burnt in the hand.
With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed,
With the last he had nothing to do;
He handled no awl, and yet in his time
Made many an excellent shoe.
He blew up no coals of sedition, but still
His bellows was always in blast;
And we will acknowledge ( deny it who will )
That one Vice, and but one, he possessed.
No actor was he, or concerned with the stage,
No audience, to awe him, appeared;
Yet oft in his shop ( like a crowd in a rage )
The voice of a hissing was heard.
Tho’ steellingwas certainly part of his cares,
In thieving he never was found;
And, tho’ he was constantly beating on bars,
No vessel he e'er ran aground.
Alas and alack! and what more can I say
Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?—
The priest and the sexton have borne him away,
And the sound of his hammer is done.