Robert Kirkland Kernighan

(25 April 1854 – 3 November 1926 / Ontario)

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 !

Comments about Mick's Baby by Robert Kirkland Kernighan

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Monday, May 14, 2012

[Report Error]