“Smoke-blackened smiths” (an anonymous poem from c. 1450)

Swart-smecked smethe, smatered with smoke,
     Smoke-blackened smiths, begrimed with smoke,
Drive me to deth with den of here dintes: 
     drive me to death with the din of their blows:
Swich nois on nightes ne herd men never,
     such noise by night no man ever heard,
What knavene cry and clattering of knockes!
     what crying of workmen and clattering of blows! 
The cammede kongons cryen after “Col! col!”
     The snub-nosed (crooked?) changelings cry out for, “Coal! coal!”
And blowen here bellewes that all here brain brestes.
     and blow their bellows fit to burst their brains.
“Huf, puf, seith that on, ‘Haf, paf,’ that other. 
     “Huf, puf,” says that one, and “Haf, paf”, the other.
They spitten and sprawlen and spellen many spelles, 
     They spit and sprawl and tell many tales,
They gnawen and gnacchen, they grones togidere, 
    they gnaw and gnash, they groan together, 
And holden hem hote with here hard hamers. 
     and keep themselves hot with their hard hammers.
Of a bole hide ben here barm-felles, 
     Of a bull’s hide are their leather aprons,
Here shankes ben shakeled for the fere-flunderes. 
     their legs are protected against the fiery sparks.
Hevy hameres they han that hard ben handled, 
     Heavy hammers they have that are handled hard,
Stark strokes they striken on a steled stocke.
     strong blows they strike on an anvil of steel.
“Lus, bus, las, das,” rowten by rowe. 
     “Lus, bus, las, das”, they crash in turn.
Swiche dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive!
     May the Devil put an end to so miserable a racket.
The maister longeth a litil and lasheth a lesse, 
     The master-smith lengthens a little piece of iron,
Twineth hem twein and toucheth a treble. 
     hammers a smaller piece, twists the two together and strikes a treble note (?). 
“Tik, tak, hic, hac, tiket, taket, tik, tak, 
Lus, bus, lus, das”. Swich lif they leden,
                              Such a life they lead,
Alle clothemeres, Christ hem give sorwe! 
     all smiths who clothe horses in iron armour, may heaven punish them! 
May no man for brenwateres on night han his rest. 
     For smiths who burn water (when they cool hot iron in it) no man can sleep at night.

– from Medieval English Lyrics