Wee destitute, deserted wean,
Cast on the world thy leefu'-lane,
To fecht wi' poverty and pain,
And nane to guide thee;
Nae ane to lead thy steps aricht,
Or back thee in the weary fecht—
What's to betide thee?

Oh! it micht mak' a heathen greet
To see thee chitt'rin' 'mang the weet,
Wi' hungry sides and shaeless feet,
A' bare and blae;
Yet ev'ry door's slamm'd in thy face,
As thou belang'dna to oor race,
This winter day.

We boast aboot oor Christian lan',
And o' the wealth at oor comman',
And yet there's no' a helpin' han'
Stretch'd oot to thee;
And a' thae crouds o' thrifty folk
Pass thee as if thou wert a brock
They hate to see.

My wee neglected, helpless creature,
Starvation writ on ev'ry feature,
What thou canst think o' God and Nature
Beats me to ken.
This earth maun seem to thee a hell,
Whaur mony heartless demons dwell
In shape o' men.
Frae ither bairns thou'rt kept apart;
Nae words o' kindness ever start
The deep emotions o' thy heart,
My puir, wee bairn:
Rear'd amang dirt and degradation,
Vile slang and horrid imprecation
Is a' ye learn.

Hoo desolate thy heart maun be!
Nae mither tak's thee on her knee,
To sing old Scotia's sangs to thee,
Baith air and late;
But drucken dyvours tease and trick thee,
And swearin' carters cuff and kick thee
Oot o' their gaet.

Ye canna spen' the simmer days
In rambles 'mang the broomy braes,
Or flow'ry haunts by lonely ways,
Whaur burnies rin;
But in dark cellars thou maun battle,
'Mang drucken swabs—vile human cattle—
An' fumes o' gin.

Ye never heard the blithe cuckoo,
Nor croodle o' the cusha-doo,
Nor lav'rock singin' in the blue,
Nor blackbird clear;
But curses deep, and words o' hate,
And ribald sangs in filthy spate,
Salute thine ear.

The glory o' the dewy dawn,
The purples o' the hill and lawn,
On thee, my child, hae never fa'n,
Like gleams frae God,
To wauken in thee thochts sublime,
And show, ee'n thro' the chinks o' time,
His bricht abode.
Ah! dae we juist gang to the kirk
To pray for heathen, Jew, or Turk,
That a' oor duties we may shirk
To sic as thee?
I scarce daur look thee in the face,
For it's a shame and a disgrace
Thy plight to see.

O Lord! what time and siller's spent
On savages we never kent,
An' coaxin' heathen to repent!
Here is a sample
Which should be lent to let them see
What oor religion's done for thee,
Thou great example!

It's no' in singin' nor in sayin',
It's no in preachin' nor in prayin',
But it's in workin' oot, and daein'
A' these in deeds
O' love an' mercy to ilk ither,
It's helpin' o' a helpless brither,
That crouns a' creeds.