A songwriter from the DC area, back in the 60s, I think, wrote a Village Smithy song. Somehow I still remember it (in its original form -- it got changed later).

Here are the lyrics.


Under the spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands,
With his anvil in his pocket
And his suitcase in his hands.
His bellows have been punctured,
And his hammer is in hock, it
Would be better to have kept it,
But he only has one pocket.
He got thirty-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, oh, what a pity
How we treat our smithies these days!


Needless to say, it was a rock song.

Bob