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 !