King o' the coal mine, dingy Knicht,
Wi' phiz sae grim, an' ee sae bricht,
Stand still, ye black an' coomy fricht,
I'll jot ye doun;
Syne bawl awa' wi' a' your micht,
An' wauk the toun.

When was there e'er a word o' truth
Cam frae that muckle, thick-lipp'd mouth,
That, burning wi' a stounding tooth,
Dries up your craigie,
An' gapes wi' a perpetual drouth
For dear Kilbagie?

Drink less, an' feed your naigie better,
For mony corn-bing ye're its debtor;
Poor brute, it needs nae rape or fetter
To tie it up,
At yillhouse doors a patient waiter
On your gee-hup!

The puir auld brute's bow-houghed an' blin',
Sharp-pointed banes shine through its skin;
Its mar'less shoon are worn as thin
As Queen Anne coins;
An' oh! its scant o' pith an' win'
To climb steep wyn's.

Your sair patch'd cart sae jolts and reels,
Wi' squeakin' trams an' creakin' wheels,
An' whomles aft your horse's heels
Sae hie in air,
That no a passer by but feels
Baith grieved an' sair.

I kenna how ye pass the tolls,
Or get bawbees to pay your coals,
Amang the needy, naked shoals
That winter cruel
Sends crawlin' forth, frae cauld bleak holes,
To grawl for fuel.

Ah! what a crowd o' shiverin' wretches
Here cower in rags, or limp on crutches;
Ane wha wad fain hae been a duchess,
Now sair disjaskit,
Gathers sma' coals, and vends braw mutches,
A' in ae basket.

Anither shows some glitterin' toys,
Wi' dalls for lassies — ba's for boys,
Plays on a trump, whase pleasin' noise
Delights Jock's ear,
An' aff he bears his penny prize
His naig to cheer.

Ane o' the street-musician crew
Is busy priggin' wi' him now,
An' twa auld sangs he swears are new,
He pawns on Jock,
For an auld hod o' coals half-fou, —
A weel-match'd troke.

Here comes a genty cleanly grannie,
Wi' sma' coal-tub an' wee meal-cannie;
Ye canna weel refuse her penny,
It's e'en her a';
Yes, fegs, ye'll fill her tub, an' winna
Tak aught ava.

Let him wha scowls on sic as thee,
But come an' watch thy tricks like me,
He'll aye find some redeeming plea,
Some kindly feature,
To gaur him gaze wi' brighter ee,
On human nature.

Puir, wairdless wretch! ye'd need anither
Wi' stern rebuke your heart to wither;
For me, I'm blithe to halt an' swither
Afore I fyke ye;
I feel I'm e'en a failin' brither,
An' far ower like ye.

Alack, alack! crime's never scant
Amang the pale-faced sons o' want;
Yet grit folk shouldna gape an' gaunt,
An' shake their pows,
But something frae their pantries grant
To feed toom mou's.

'Tis poortith's keen an' witherin' blight,
That gi'es to crime its greatest might;
Gif want's awa, temptation 's light
To beg or steal;
Then pity poortith's wretched plight,
An' help, an' feel!