Colonial Complaint: Insufficient Iron

Hark the timber! Everywhere is wood—good grief, but where is ore?
I roam the lanes of yester-year, my tongs demand some more.
A hinge of iron? Vanish’d. Nails? Of brass or something poor.
I clutch a pewter candlestick—soft metal’s such a bore.

I tried to bend a ploughshare—farmer shouted, “Sir, that’s mine!”
A kettle? Copper. Locks? Too fancy. Chains? A ribbon line.
Behold me yearning, flexing, posing—showroom titan, steel galore—
In theory, yes; in practice, no—this century’s a chore.

So let the blacksmith mark me down a tab for future days;
I’ll bend the railways when they’re born—advance on later ways.
’Til then I twist a weather vane, rehearse my mighty roar,
And stamp my foot in metred gloom: “Bring iron—lots—and more.”

Note: The perils of being a metal-bender before the age of mass iron.