by: Wheeler, Les
Source: The Highland Ferryman - William Dyce
He takks his ease; quaet as time itsel.
Years o boo-backit darg hae taen their toll.
He sits aleen, bleached een seein an nae seein.
Fit antrin thochts rin roon his gray-waasht heid?
Dis he winner at the far awa bens happit in moose-wab haar?
Speir at his God for cannier, quaeter seas?
Mummle fremmit curses in his aul Celtic tongue?
Taste aforehaun his easin, lowsin-time dram?
His he thochts on anither ferryman?
Winner if Charon'll tak him ower
An him wi nae obol tae his name?
Wark-worn face an hauns,
Gnarled like aul aik,
Tell their ain tale.
I jalouse he thinks o nithin at aa.
He's daen his darg an dis it still:
Aye, he's earned his arles.
It's nae bother tae dicht the mind's slate.
Anither day is slippin bye:
Anither horizon'll rise come the morn.