Old Codger

Robert William Service

Of garden truck he made his fare,
     As his bright eyes bore witness;
Health was his habit and his care,
     His hobby human fitness.
He sang the praise of open sky,
     The gladth of Nature’s giving;
And when at last he came to die
     It was of too long living.

He held aloof from hate and strife,
     Drank peace in dreamful doses;
He never voted in his life,
     Loved children, dogs and roses.
Let tyrants romp in gory glee,
     And revolutions roister,
He passed his days as peacefully
     As friar in a cloister.

So fellow sinners, should you choose
     Of doom to be a dodger,
At eighty be a bland recluse
     Like this serene old codger,
Who turned his back on fear and fret,
     And died nigh eighty-seven . . .
His name was—Robert Service: let
     Us hope he went to Heaven

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