UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The smithy used to stand; The smith, a prosperous man is he As any in the land; For many a shell in a foreign trench Now bears the smithy's brand. His clothes are new, and fashioned well; His foods are rich and rare; His hands are nicely manicured, And freshly trimmed his hair. And he slaps the whole world in the face, For he is a millionaire. Week in, week out, from morn till night, And eke from night till day, You can see his factory fires aglow— (Three shifts at double pay). None makes more profit than the smith In all these U. S. A. And people coming home from work Look in at the open door, And say, what time they see the fires, And hear the bellows roar: "I wish I'd bought some Blacksmith Common When it was 24." Toiling—rejoicing—profiting— With pleasure evident, Each morning sees some shells begun For some belligerent. Something attempted—some one done, Has earned two thou. per cent. |