We bore him to his boneyard lot <br />One afternoon at three; <br />The clergyman was on the spot <br />To earn his modest fee. <br />We sprinkled on his coffin ld <br />The customary loam, <br />And so old Bill was snugly slid <br /> To his last home. <br /> <br />A lonesome celebate we thought, <br />For close as clam was he; <br />We never guessed that he had got <br />A lawful family, <br />Till lo! we saw a gorgeous wreath <br />Reposing on his bier, <br />With on a scarlet scroll beneath: <br /> "To Father Dear." <br /> <br />He ordered it hisself, they said, <br />Before he had to go. <br />His folks don't know that he is dead - <br />Maybe they'll never know. <br />His step was frail, his hair was grey, <br />But though his sight was dim, <br />He liked to kid hisself that they <br /> Still thought of him. <br /> <br />Maybe they did: we never knew, <br />And he would never tell; <br />Perhaps their hearts were broken too - <br />His was, I think . . . Ah well, <br />We left him in the boneyard lot <br />With none to shed a tear, <br />And just a wreath, the one he bought: <br /> <br /> "To Father Dear."<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alias-bill/
