Old Codger

 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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