I recall a local DC-area rock musician (whose name I can't recall) who had a wonderful song that went like this:

Under the spreading chestnut tree the Village Smithy stands,
With his anvil in his pocket and his suitcase in his hands.
His bellows has been punctured, and his hammer is in hock --
It would have been better to have kept it, but he only has one pocket.
He got forty-seven cents for it, and now he's lost the ticket;
He does not know he was jobbed, but then the smithy's kind of thick, it
Is a pity, what a pity, how we treat our smithies these days.

In actual fact, a "smithy" is the smith's place of work -- the shop, as it were -- and not the man. The man is the smith, the shop is the smithy, and the location is under a blighted tree.

Bob

PS -- The song above was later rewritten, so folks who were around in the 70s may recall a different set of words. I suspect Andy Wallace or Mike Rivers are the only ones I know who could tell us who wrote the thing.