Hes up at early morning, howe'er the win' may blaw,
Lang before the sun comes roun to chase the stars awa';
And 'mang a 'thoosan dangers, unkent in sweet daylicht,
He'll toil until the stars again keek through the chilly night.
See the puir wee callan 'neath the cauld clear moon!
His knees oot through his troosers, and his taes oot through his shoon,
Wading through the freezing snaw, and thinking ower again
How happy every wean maun be that's no' a collier's son.
His cheeks are blae wi' cauld, and the chittering winna cease
To gi'e the hungry callan time to eat his morning piece;
His lamp is burning on his heid wi' feeble, flickering ray,
And in his heart the lamp of Hope is burning feebly tae.
Nae wonner that the callan's sweert to face his daily toil,
Nae wonner he sae seldom greets the morning wi' a smile,
For weel he kens he's growing up to face the cauld distain
That lang the world has measured oot to every collier's wean.
The puir wee hirpling laddie! How mournfully he's gaun,
Aye ditching aff the ither tear wi' a wee, hard hackit haun!
Sair, sair, he's temptit 'mang the snaw tae toom his flask o' oil,
In vain the stars look on the youth wi' merry twinkling een,
Through clouds o' care sae dense as his their glory is nae seen;
He thinks t'wad been a better plan if coal had boonmost lain,
And wonners why his faither made a collier o' his wean.
Oh! Ye that row in Fortunes lap, his waefu' story hear,
Aft sorrows no' sae deep as his hae won a pitying tear,
And lichter warngs than he endures your sympathy hae won-
Although he is a collier's, mind he's still a Briton's son.
And ye wha mak' and mend oor laws, tak pity on the bairn;
Oh! Bring him sooner frae the pit, and g'ie him time tae learn;
Sae shall ye lift him frae the mire 'mang which he lang has lain,
And win a blessing frae the heart o' every collier's wean.
