My Grandpa had a blacksmith shop,
Where everyone who passed would stop,
And spend the time of day with him,
While he would work with iron and tin.
He started working as a lad,
In the shop owned by his dad.
He never learned to read or write,
For he worked, from morn 'till night.
He had talent and he could draw,
The neatest designs you ever saw,
Of parts for boats, and gates and things,
And he could pound out shoes and rings.
His son became a blacksmith too,
Back when folks had a horse or two.
My Grammy kept the books at night,
Sitting by the kerosene light.
When Grammy, the dinner bell would ring,
Across the road, his friends he'd bring.
And Grammy would set another place,
While Grandpa washed his hands and face.
I'm told he had a kindly way,
Tho' I never met him, I'm sad to say.
He was honest as the day is long,
And everyone says he could do no wrong.
How I wish I'd had the chance to know,
This man everyone admired so.
Mary J. Stevens
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