He lies on his back, the idling smith, br A lazy, dreaming fellow is he; br The sky is blue, or the sky is gray, br He lies on his back the livelong day, br Not a tool in sight, say what they may, br A curious sort of smith is he. br br The powers of the air are in league with him; br The country around believes it well; br The wondering folk draw spying near; br Never sight nor sound do they see or hear; br No wonder they feel a little fear; br When is it his work is done so well? br br Never sight nor sound to see or hear; br The powers of the air are in league with him; br High over his head his metals swing, br Fine gold and silver to shame the king; br We might distinguish their glittering, br If once we could get in league with him. br br High over his head his metals swing; br He hammers them idly year by year, br Hammers and chuckles a low refrain: br "A bench and a book are a ball and a chain, br The adze is a better tool than the plane; br What's the odds between now and next year?" br br Hammers and chuckles his low refrain, br A lazy, dreaming fellow is he: br When sudden, some day, his bells peal out, br And men, at the sound, for gladness shout; br He laughs and asks what it's all about; br Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.