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Poem	An Ancient gaffer once I knew, Who puffed a pipe and tossed a tankard; He claimed a hundred years or two, And for a dozen more he hankered; So o'er a pint I asked how he Had kept his timbers tight together; He grinned and answered: "It maun be Because I likes all kinds o' weather. "Fore every morn when I get up I lights my clay pipe wi' a cinder, And as me mug o' tea I sup I looks from out the cottage winder; And if it's shade or if it's shine Or wind or snow befit to freeze me, I always say: 'Well, now that's fine . . . It's just the sorto' day to please me.' "For I have found it wise in life To take the luck the way it's coming; A wake, a worry or a wife - Just carry on and keep a-humming. And so I lights me pipe o' clay, And through the morn on blizzard borders, I chuckle in me guts and say: 'It's just the day the doctor orders.'" A mighty good philosophy Thought I, and leads to longer living, To make the best of things that be, And take the weather of God's giving; So though the sky be ashen grey, And winds be edged and sleet be slanting, Heap faggots on the fire and say: "It's just the kind of day I'm wanting."
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