 | Poems And Songs |  |
17
THE COLLIER'S RAGGED WEAN.
He's up at early morning, howe'er the win' may blaw,
Lang before the sun comes roun' to chase the stars awa';
And 'mang a thoosand dangers, unkent in sweet daylight,
He'll toil until the stars again keek through the chilly night.
See the puir wee callan', 'neath the cauld clear moon!
His knees oot through his troosers and his taes oot through his shoon;
Wading through the freezing snaw, thinking owre again,
How happy every wean maun be that's no a collier's wean.
Lang before the sun comes roun' to chase the stars awa';
And 'mang a thoosand dangers, unkent in sweet daylight,
He'll toil until the stars again keek through the chilly night.
See the puir wee callan', 'neath the cauld clear moon!
His knees oot through his troosers and his taes oot through his shoon;
Wading through the freezing snaw, thinking owre again,
How happy every wean maun be that's no a collier's wean.
18
His cheeks are blae wi' cauld, and the chittering winna cease,
To gie the hungry callan' time to eat his mornin' piece;
His lamp is burning on his head wi' feeble flickering ray,
And in his heart the lamp o' Hope is burning feebly tae.
Nae wonner that the callan's sweert to face his daily toil,
Nae wonner he sae seldom greets the morning wi' a smile;
For weel he kens he's growing up to face the cauld disdain
That lang the world has measured oot to every collier's wean.
To gie the hungry callan' time to eat his mornin' piece;
His lamp is burning on his head wi' feeble flickering ray,
And in his heart the lamp o' Hope is burning feebly tae.
Nae wonner that the callan's sweert to face his daily toil,
Nae wonner he sae seldom greets the morning wi' a smile;
For weel he kens he's growing up to face the cauld disdain
That lang the world has measured oot to every collier's wean.
The puir wee hirpling laddie! how mournfully he's gaun,
Aye dichting aff the ither tear wi's wee hard hackit haun'!
Sair, sair he's temptit 'mang the snaw to toom his flask o' oil,
But ah!—ae flash o' faither's ire were waur than weeks o' toil.
In vain the stars look on the youth wi' merry twinkling een,
Through clouds o' care sae dense as his their glory is nae seen;
He thinks 'twad been a better plan if coal had boon-most lain,
And wonners why his faither made a collier o' his wean.
Aye dichting aff the ither tear wi's wee hard hackit haun'!
Sair, sair he's temptit 'mang the snaw to toom his flask o' oil,
But ah!—ae flash o' faither's ire were waur than weeks o' toil.
19
Through clouds o' care sae dense as his their glory is nae seen;
He thinks 'twad been a better plan if coal had boon-most lain,
And wonners why his faither made a collier o' his wean.
Oh! ye that row in Fortune's lap, his waefu' story hear;
Aft sorrows no sae deep as his hae won a pitying tear;
And lichter wrangs than he endures your sympathy hae won—
Although he is a collier's, mind he's still a Briton's son.
And ye wha mak' and mend oor laws, tak' pity on the bairn;
Oh! bring him sooner frae the pit, and gie him time to learn:
Sae shall ye lift him frae the mire 'mang which he lang has lain,
And win a blessing frae the heart o' every collier's wean.
Aft sorrows no sae deep as his hae won a pitying tear;
And lichter wrangs than he endures your sympathy hae won—
Although he is a collier's, mind he's still a Briton's son.
And ye wha mak' and mend oor laws, tak' pity on the bairn;
Oh! bring him sooner frae the pit, and gie him time to learn:
Sae shall ye lift him frae the mire 'mang which he lang has lain,
And win a blessing frae the heart o' every collier's wean.
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