We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a might man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns what'er he can, And looks the whole word in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the bellows blow; You can hear him swing his might sledge, With measure beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school Look in the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar. And catch the flaming sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like his mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hands he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing, Onward in life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned his night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou has taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
I had to memorize this poem in 7th grade. The only reason that I can still recite is that the first time I did so in front of the class, I accidentally said that "And the muscles of his scrawny arms / Are as strong as rubber bands." Everyone lost it.