Of garden truck he made his fare, <br /> As his bright eyes bore witness; <br />Health was his habit and his care, <br /> His hobby human fitness. <br />He sang the praise of open sky, <br /> The gladth of Nature's giving; <br />And when at last he came to die <br /> It was of too long living. <br /> <br />He held aloof from hate and strife, <br /> Drank peace in dreamful doses; <br />He never voted in his life, <br /> Loved children, dogs and roses. <br />Let tyrants romp in gory glee, <br /> And revolutions roister, <br />He passed his days as peacefully <br /> As friar in a cloister. <br /> <br />So fellow sinners, should you choose <br /> Of doom to be a dodger, <br />At eighty be a bland recluse <br /> Like this serene old codger, <br />Who turned his back on fear and fret, <br /> And died nigh eighty-seven . . . <br />His name was--Robert Service: let <br /> Us hope he went to Heaven<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-codger/
