The Blacksmith and the Collier

The blacksmith and the collier, two noble trades they ply, With fire in their veins, and water in their eye. They strike the iron cold, while the world turns to the new, Holding to a phantom King, and a cause that isn't true. They see the "German Lairdie" in the counting-house and court, While they brew a bitter chemistry of a long-forgotten sort. Their fellows walk the easy road, with the George upon the coin, But these two seek a broken line that no hammer-blow can join. Is it courage in the furnace, or a madness in the brain, To harvest willow-charcoal for a king who brings but rain? They forge the pikes for ghosts to hold, in the "Still Room" of the night, Trading the sun of a peaceful day for a dying candle's light. The Rider passes by the door, and the village shakes its head, At the men who toast a living ghost and serve the unrisen dead. They give the Empire everything—the anchor and the shoe, But keep a corner of their souls for a lie they swear is true. The Rider rides the coastal path with the law within his breast, To guard the peace of English homes and put the ghost to rest. He knows the smoke from yonder forge is more than simple trade; It’s the breath of a sleeping dragon’s fire, where a nation’s blood is weighed. For the smith who brings the "New Coal" in is a threat to king and town, A spark that seeks to burn the world and pull the banner down. The gavel falls like hammer-strike upon the courtroom floor, A final "Guilty" echoes through the iron-bolted door. No Wealden fire to warm the bones, no willow-shade to see, Just the salt-spray of the transport-ship across a greying sea. The Rider watches from the quay, his public duty done, The threat is shipped to Maryland beneath a foreign sun. Back in the Weald, the air is clear, the secret smoke is gone, And in the forge, a newer man takes up the task at dawn. No longer does the anvil ring with toasts to phantom kings, But for the plough, the garden gate, and simple, useful things. The "New Coal" feeds a steady fire that keeps the village warm, And seeks no "Still Room" chemistry to brew a coming storm. The collier is a peaceful man who knows the forest well, With nothing in his charcoal-sack that he would fear to tell. The village sleeps in quiet hope, the ancient madness fled, While "Charlie" is a nursery-tale to tuck the babes in bed.