The Blacksmiths

Swarte smekyd smeþes smateryd wyth smoke
Dryue me to deth wyth den of here dyntes.
Swech noys on nyghtes ne herd men neuer:
What knauene cry and clateryng of knockes!
Þe cammede kongons cryen after 'col, col!'
And blowen here bellewys, þat al here brayn brestes:
'Huf, puf!' seith þat on; 'haf, paf!' þat oþer.
Þei spyttyn and spraulyn and spellyn many spelles;
Þei gnauen and gnacchen, þei gronys togydere,
And holdyn hem hote wyth here hard hamers.
Of a bole-hyde ben here barm-fellys;
Here schankes ben schakeled for the fere flunderys;
Heuy hamerys þei han, þat hard ben handled,
Stark strokes þei stryken on a stelyd stokke:
Lus, bus! las, das! rowtyn be rowe.
Swech dolful a dreme þe deuyl it todryue!
Þe mayster longith a lityl, and lascheth a lesse,
Twyneth hem tweyn, and towchith a treble:
Tik, tak! hic, hac! tiket, taket! tyk, tak!
Lus, bus! lus, das! swych lyf thei ledyn
Alle cloþemerys: Cryst hem gyue sorwe!
May no man for brenwaterys on nyght han hys rest!