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Zak | all galleries >> Daily Bute >> Daily Bute 2006 >> March 2006 > 22nd March
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22nd March

The old Smiddy out at Ettrick,
More Pics(that aren't mine!!) of the Smiddy ** HERE **

it actually snowed for a few minutes here this morning, didn't settle of course...


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Yvonne23-Mar-2006 10:48
Great to see these old places still standing!
Ray :)23-Mar-2006 00:13
sunny bugga!
Stu23-Mar-2006 00:10
You thinking of buying it?
Gail Davison22-Mar-2006 20:49
Beautiful spot, nicely captured.
Al Chesworth22-Mar-2006 20:10
Nice wee place and blue skies to boot.
Jim Ross22-Mar-2006 20:01
Lovely quaint little place...
Johnny JAG22-Mar-2006 19:52
Nice shot, sorry no poetry in our school.
sebas veldhuisen22-Mar-2006 18:23
Nice shot! And fantastic it brings up this beautiful poem. The post box is a mystery. Do you think the post man finds his hot coffee there on his daily round?
Guest 22-Mar-2006 18:02
Love the post box great shot
laine8222-Mar-2006 17:49
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arm
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 whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning 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 village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her 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 hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Henry Wadsworth Longellow
1807-1882

One of the poems we learned as kids in our English Poetry classes
northstar3722-Mar-2006 16:36
tsk at the booting off! Looks a lovely little cottage. And not far to nip to the post box either.
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