The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:
But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,
Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.
Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,
An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;
Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,
There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;
The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,
With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.
I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,