Robert Kirkland Kernighan
Mick's Baby - Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
His fingers trembled on his pick,
And some one said, ' What's wrong with Mick?'
The answer came, ' His baby 's sick,'
And all the vim
Departed from the noisy crowd,
And hung upon them like a shroud,
And not a workman spoke aloud
They pitied him.
The foreman pointed with his stick,
And every eye was turned on Mick,
Till someone said, ' His baby 's sick,'
And strange to tell
He said : ' My man, lay down that pick,
I hear your little baby 's sick ;
Now don't come back to labor, Mick,
Until she 's well.'
And Mick stood up with lifted head :
' I 'm working here to earn her bread,
But I 've just got news that my baby 's dead ;'
And the feeling quick
Ran round the big hard-working crowd,
When he, with air benign and proud,
Said, ' I '11 stick to my work till I earn her a shroud.'
Well done, Mick !
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