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George MacDonald - What The Auld Fowk Are Thinkin
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The bairns i` their beds, worn oot wi` nae wark,
Are sleepin, nor ever an eelid winkin;
The auld fowk lie still wi` their een starin stark,
An` the mirk pang-fou o` the things they are thinkin.

Whan oot o` ilk corner the bairnies they keek,
Lauchin an` daffin, airms loosin an` linkin,
The auld fowk they watch frae the warm ingle-cheek,
But the bairns little think what the auld fowk are thinkin.

Whan the auld fowk sit quaiet at the reet o` a stook,
I` the sunlicht their washt een blinterin an` blinkin,
Fowk scythin, or bin`in, or shearin wi` heuk
Carena a strae what the auld fowk are thinkin.

At the kirk, whan the minister`s dreich an` dry,
His fardens as gien they war gowd guineas chinkin,
An` the young fowk are noddin, or fidgetin sly,
Naebody kens what the auld fowk are thinkin.

Whan the young fowk are greitin aboot the bed
Whaur like water throu san` the auld life is sinkin,
An` some wud say the last word was said,
The auld fowk smile, an` ken what they`re thinkin
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