BRAVE iron, brave hammer, from your sound The art of music has her ground; On the anvil thou keep'st time, Thy knick-a-knock is a smith's best chime. Yet thwick-a-thwack, thwick, thwack-a-thwack, thwack, Make our brawny sinews crack: Then pit-a-pat, pat, pit-a-pat, pat, Till thickest bars be beaten flat. We shoe the horses of the sun, Harness the dragons of the moon; Forge Cupid's quiver, bow, and arrows, And our dame's coach that's drawn with sparrows. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. Jove's roaring cannons and his rammers We beat out with our Lemnian hammers; Mars his gauntlet, helm and spear, And Gorgon shield are all made here. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. The grate which, shut, the day outbars, Those golden studs which nail the stars, The globe's case and the axle-tree, Who can hammer these but we? Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. A warming-pan to heat earth's bed, Lying i' th' frozen zone half-dead; Hob-nails to serve the man i' th' moon, And sparrowbills to clout Pan's shoon, Whose work but ours? Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. Venus' kettles, pots and pans We make, or else she brawls and bans; Tongs, shovels, andirons have their places, Else she scratches all our faces. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY HONOURED FRIEND DR. CHARLETON by JOHN DRYDEN HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON by ROBERT HERRICK THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG by ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL, 1 JAN. 1661 by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN |