W ORTHINGTON M ACKENZIE , though considerate and kind,
Belonged to a profession that is frequently maligned,
For Mackenzie was a burglar, and I'm very much afraid
That people have a prejudice against this ancient trade.
And so, although he really tried to do his level best,
To operate most silently, and not disturb their rest,
The families that he visited would frequently remark
That they'd rather that Mackenzie didn't visit after dark.

One night while he was calling at the home of Ezra Ball,
The well-known Wall Street financier, and standing in the hall,
He overheard the millionaire remark: “Why, bless my soul,
The second butler tells me that we haven't any coal.”
His wife, who was a famous social leader in her day,
In dulcet, modulated tones replied: “The hell you say!
It's bitter, freezing cold to-night; I'm chilled right to my bones,
And, worst of all, we've asked to dine Sir Percy Bromley-Jones.”
Now Worthington Mackenzie had a heart as good as gold,
It grieved him that a lady should be bothered by the cold.
Hot tears coursed quickly down his cheeks. He uttered stifled groans
As he thought of her embarrassment with Percy Bromley-Jones.
A moment's hesitation—then his tools he deftly packed,
For with Worthington Mackenzie to reflect was but to act.
Then from the house he quickly slipped with stealthy tread and fleet
To the home of Paisley Beamish who resided down the street.
With rapid skill the iron gate he quickly jimmied in.
He blew apart the entrance door with nitro-glycerin.
He jimmied, chopped, and sawed, and hacked until he reached his goal,
The Paisley Beamish cellar filled with tons of precious coal.

He did not pause a moment to rejoice at his success,
But, filled with joy that he could help a lady in distress,
He loaded up with coal a barrel standing near the wall,
And he dragged it from the cellar to the home of Ezra Ball.
I do not know how many times he traveled to and fro,
But Ezra's bin was soon quite full, the Beamish bin was low;
And Worthington Mackenzie, as he dropped his final load,
With feelings of benevolence and righteous pleasure glowed.
His clothes were torn, his face was black, he ached in all his bones,
But Mrs. Ball could entertain Sir Percy Bromley-Jones.