A Wee King by Isma Munro

Barfit he wis, in claes threidbare,
His taes aa chilblains, heels aa hacks,
A shilpit craitur, shiv’ring sair,
His wee face pinched an white wax.
Outside a baker’s shop he stood,
His nose pressed till the window pane,
An lookin wistfu at the food,
Fan, sudden-like, on cam the rain.
That shargart bairn, sma for his years,
Hid haen nae bite that day ava,
An, as he blinked awa his tears,
He saw the rain had turned till sna.
A weel-dressed wifie passed by.
Syne back she turned an kind-like said,
“Here, laddie, tak this fine meat pie,
I’ll hae some ither thing instead”.
He took the pie in’s wee bit han
And thankit her for sic a treat.
Fan she said “Eat it up wee man,”
His neist words gey near gart her gret.
“I’m keeping it or I get hame.
Syne I’ll gie half o’t till ma Da.
He canna work. Ye see he’s lame.
An he’s a hungry man an aa.”
In this sad world that’s fu o’ strife,
Lat’s gie some thocht till that wee loon,
Fa’s early learnt some facts o’ life,
A bairn sic-like should wear a croon.