Cyclops' Song

Brave iron, brave hammer, from your sound

The art of music has her ground;

On the anvil thou keep'st time,

Thy knick-a-knock is a smith's best chime.

Yet thwick-a-thwack, thwick, thwack-a-thwack, thwack,

Make our brawny sinews crack:

Then pit-a-pat, pat, pit-a-pat, pat,

Till thickest bars be beaten flat.

We shoe the horses of the sun,

Harness the dragons of the moon;

Forge Cupid's quiver, bow, and arrows,

And our dame's coach that's drawn with sparrows.

Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

Jove's roaring cannons and his rammers

We beat out with our Lemnian hammers;

Mars his gauntlet, helm and spear,

And Gorgon shield are all made here.

Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

The grate which, shut, the day outbars,

Those golden studs which nail the stars,

The globe's case and the axle-tree,

Who can hammer these but we?

Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

A warming-pan to heat earth's bed,

Lying i' th' frozen zone half-dead;

Hob-nails to serve the man i' th' moon,

And sparrowbills to clout Pan's shoon,

Whose work but ours?

Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

Venus' kettles, pots and pans

We make, or else she brawls and bans;

Tongs, shovels, andirons have their places,

Else she scratches all our faces.