The burly, stalwort blacksmith,
With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.
And then I was hung up in a village store;
A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,
To wait my destined doom.
I was born in the pleasant wood;
(Thus commenced the helve,
Not rough and fierce and hateful
Like the iron, but modest and mild)
I was born in the pleasant wood;