The ‘barrel' - ‘a Coopers Tale'

Smote the ‘lump’ upon the ‘drive’ The ancient oak did groan, Smote it down a second time – And not a stave did moan. Riven hard and driven tight The chime hoop bore the load, Its rivets creaked; an iron child - Born of Hells hot forge. The ‘Barrels’ calloused hand aloft, Like child with candy cane, And four pound lump of hammer head Was driven hard again. Sparks flew from the molten band, Searing smelt the wood; Could Thor have walked this Earth again, As ‘Barrel’, here he stood. Heady as the Hoppy brew The smell upon the place, And fires of oak and charcoal Toasted red on every face. Riven stave stacked high on high And wood shave underfoot; With flashing Adze and Draw Knife Each plank and side was cut. Another crushing, driving blow Then mighty lump was stilled, And cask was set and cask was stacked; Another to be filled. What journey now before it lay? Once filled with mans great prides! To travel beyond creators dreams Of rich man’s lands, and lives. Again did raise the calloused hand, The lump did blot the eye, Danced high the spark upon the hoop Then it, like dreams, did die.