Forge Lane

The blacksmiths stood beside the road In olden days gone by, No nothing but the name survives And memories slowly die, Once smithies shod the horses there And time and time again, Within that place that dwelt upon The end of old Forge Lane. The blacksmiths stood beside the road Its chimney used to smoke, For there the glowing embers burned And fires they did stoke, The hammer on the anvil rang Its regular refrain, They shaped and bent the shoes within The end of old Forge Lane. The blacksmiths stood beside the road Where horses used to stay, As Harry Pointon clenched their hoofs And prised the old away, While Fuller Thomas held them still And gripped the leather rein, They filed and nailed new shoes upon The end of old Forge Lane. The blacksmiths stood beside the road A barrow just outside, And there its doors were never closed But always opened wide, Now just the fading photographs Are all that do remain, Of times that passed so long before The end of old Forge Lane.