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
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
Maids In May
Three maids there were in meadow bright,
The eldest less then seven;
Their eyes were dancing with delight,
And innocent as Heaven.
Wild flowers they wound with tender glee,
Their cheeks with rapture rosy;
All radiant they smiled at me,
When I besought a posy.
She gave me a columbine,
And one a poppy brought me;
The tiniest, with eyes ashine,
A simple daisy sought me.
And as I went my sober way,
I heard their careless laughter;
Their hearts too happy with to-day
To care for what comes after.
. . . . . . .
That's long ago; they're gone, all three,
To walk amid the shadows;
Forgotten is their lyric glee
In still and sunny meadows.
For Columbine loved life too well,
And went adventure fairing;
And sank into the pit of hell,
And passed but little caring.
While Poppy was a poor man's wife,
And children had a-plenty;
And went, worn out with toil and strife
When she was five-and-twenty.
And Daisy died while yet a child,
As fragile blossoms perish,
When Winter winds are harsh and wild,
With none to shield and cherish.
Ah me! How fate is dark and dour
To little Children of the Poor.
poem by Robert William Service
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Peacefully He Died
I had no choice to where to be born
But if I could choose where to die
I would choose where the Lilacs grow
And where the river runs wide.
I would go where no War has been
And from hate, no one has died
I would go where the Birds fly high
And where the tree tops touch the sky.
I would go where the water is blue
And where the land is painted green
I would go where nature plays her song
And it is nothing more than serene.
For a Man lives such a mournful life
And I think it is just fitting and right
For him to find His own place to go
When it becomes His time to die.
For I would like to go where the word is peace
When it becomes my time to go
Where sadness and pain is never felt
And their aftermath is never known.
I would like to go where hunger is fed
And misery is a forgotten word
I would like to go where love is sewn
And where, “ I don’t care” is never heard.
So when it becomes my time to leave
I won’t go with Mans sorrows or fears
I hope to be buried in a peaceful place
And I hope not, to cause much tears.
For where to be born I had no choice
But where to choose to finally lie
I would like to go where on my tombstone they’d write,
“Hate and Sorrow Knew His Name, But Peacefully Here He Died”.....
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Peacefully, He Died
I had no choice where to be born
But if I could choose where to die
I'd choose where the lilacs grow,
And where the river runs wide.
I'd go where no war has been
And from hate, no one has died
I'd go where the birds fly high,
And the tree tops touch the sky.
I'd go where the water is blue
And the plains are painted green
I'd go where nature sings her song,
And the song is nothing more than serene.
A man lives such a mournful life
And I think it is fitting and right
For Him to find His own place to go,
When it becomes His time to die.
I like to go where the word is peace
When it becomes my time to go
Where sadness and pain is never felt,
And their aftermaths is never known.
I'd like to go where hunger is fed
And misery is a forgotten word
I like to go where love is sewn,
And where 'I Don't Care', is never heard.
When it becomes my time to leave
I wont go with mans sorrows or fears
I hope to be buried in a peaceful place,
And I hope not, to cause much tears.
Where to be born, I had no choice
But where to choose for me to finally lie,
I like to go where on my tomb they would write,
'Hate and Sorrow Knew His Name, But Peacefully Here He Died'..
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ripeness
With peace and rest
And wisdom sage,
Ripeness is best
Of every age.
With hands that fold
In pensive prayer,
For grave-yard mold
Prepare.
From fighting free
With fear forgot,
Let ripeness be,
Before the rot.
With heart of cheer
At eighty odd,
How man grows near
To God!
With passion spent
And life nigh run
Let us repent
The ill we've done.
And as we bless
With happy heart
Life's mellowness
--Depart.
poem by Robert William Service
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1984
Nineteen eighty four
Someday they wont let you
Now you must agree
The time they are a telling
And the changing isnt free
You read it in the tea leaves
And the reacks are on tv
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Theyll split your pretty cranium
And fill it full of air
Theyll tell you that youre eighty
And really you wont care
Youll be shooting up on everything
Tomorrows never there
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Im looking for a vehicle
Im looking for a ride
Im looking for a party
Im looking for a side
Im looking for a treason
That I knew in sixty five
Beware the savage door
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heritage Hills Class Of Eighty-One
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Here it is, the year two thousand eleven
Thirty years, thirty years, where did it go
Saddened to learn a few are gone on to Heaven
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
My, oh my, where did the time fly
Wow…victories, tears, joy, and fun
Being a grandparent is love not to deny
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Some led the life of the moth to the flame
Many went on to higher knowledge
Knowing happiness in a life that's tame
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
One time Providence dealt us a course unknown
We handled it, conquered it, survived it
Now, we bask in seeing our children grown
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Yes, we are middle aged and gray
A few aches, a few pains, but no complaints
It's class reunion time…oh what a great day
poem by Charles Hancock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Host
I never could imagine God:
I don't suppose I ever will.
Beside His altar fire I nod
With senile drowsiness but still
In old of age as sight grows dim
I have a sense of Him.
For when I count my sum of days
I find so many sweet and good,
My mind is full of peace and praise,
My heart aglow with gratitude.
For my long living in the sun
I want to thank someone.
Someone who has been kind to me;
Some power within, if not on high,
Who shaped my gentle destiny,
And led me pleasant pastures by:
Who taught me, whether gay or grave,
To love the life He gave.
A Host of charity and cheer,
Within a Tavern warm and bright;
Who smiles and bids me have no fear
As forth I fare into the night:
From whom I beg no Heav'n, but bless
For earthly happiness.
poem by Robert William Service
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My Grandma
The little old lady isn't around anymore
to push me, to encourage, as she did before
she stood only four foot eleven
so sweet, so kind just like heaven
Up at the crack of dawn
always knitting with yarn
she died at eighty-six
my problems she always could fix
With a twinkle in her eye
and being very sly,
she told me I could make it
because of fame I would get
She couldn't read or write
but she was very bright
at cards she loved to play
she knew how to count, without delay
How I miss grandma dear
loved her so, wish she was still here
so many memories of long ago
of biscuits she made out of fresh dough
As trains passed by each day,
up she lifted me to see, that was her way
everyone loved her very much
her face I wish I could touch
How I miss grandma dear
to think of her brings a tear
I know she's not here anymore
oh, if she could encourage me as before
Too Late
HOPE? What! hope !—you say there is hope for the long-lost one!
Hope! when the light is out; hope! when the oil is done;
Hope! No, no, good lady! no hope for me, at least;
No home for me but the clammy grave when life has ceased.
Hope! Well, there might have been hope had my mother lived; but, then,
5
God struck her dead, and I was left alone among men.
God knows how I loved her; and shall I never see her again?
Is there no glimpse of heaven for those who are doomed to pain?
Oh, cannot she come and kiss me? Oh, cannot she pray by my side,
As she did long ago on that terrible evening before she died?
10
If she prayed God would hear her, and perhaps—but no;
I'm too old a sinner for mercy—there is nothing for me but woe.
You say that I yet could be saved if I sorrowed for my sin;
That the Lord is at heaven's gate to take poor sinners in!
God knows that I hate my sin, but I feel that it cannot be;
15
I've so often forsaken Him, that He must have forsaken me.
Nay, don't offer a prayer for me, lady, it's only mocking at God:
Who knows but my tired heart still may rest beneath the sod?
For I always loved the sunny fields and the sweet, sweet flowers,
And longed to be pure once again like them, in my better hours.
20
But after I first had fallen the devil opened my eyes,
And I saw that the world knew my shame, and I hadn't the heart to rise;
So I gave up trying to be good, and sank down lower in sin,
Tho' the thought of poor dead mother made me always hate it within.
Oh, many's the night that I've wandered about thro' rain and snow,
25
Wandered about in the street, and didn't know where had to go;
And I've often crept to the river and looked at it, still and black,
And thought how every one spurned me—but something held me back.
I remember how once, when I stopped, half-dead, one rainy day,
To rest on his steps for a moment, the servants drove me away;
30
Drove me away like a dog from the door of the man for whom,
O God! I had given up all in this world and beyond the tomb.
But don't weep at my story, good lady; I'm not worth it living or dead!
Ha, ha! I'm not frightened of Death, nor the devils that dance round my bed:
There cannot be any hell deeper nor fuller of devils and strife
35
Than the hell that burns in my heart, and the fire that eats out life.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Comrades
Three Holies sat in sacred place
And quaffed celestial wine,
As they discussed the human race
With dignity divine.
Said they: 'Although in doctrine we
May differ more or less,
In spirit stoutly we agree
Religion's a success.'
Said One: 'I praise the pride of war,
The Faith that mocks at fear;
Desire of death in battle for
It bringeth Heaven near.'
The Second said: ''Tis Peace I preach,
And hate of human strife;
The sufferance of pain I teach,
The sanctity of life.'
Then said the Third: 'Love I proclaim
The goal of human good . . .
Yet are we not all three the same
In holy brotherhood?'
And so they went forth hand in hand,
Wending a starry way,--
Mohamet, gentle Buddha and
He of Gethsemenè.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Palace
Grimy men with picks and shovels
Who in darkness sweat unseen,
Climb from out your lousy hovels,
Build a palace for the Queen;
Praise the powers that be for giving
You a chance to make a living.
Yet it would be better far
Could you build with cosy lure
Skyey tenements where are
Rabbit-warrens of the poor;
With a hope bright as a gem
Some day you might live in them.
Could the Queen just say: 'A score
Of rich palaces have I.
Do not make me any more,--
Raise a hostel heaven-high;
House the hundreds who have need,
To their misery give heed.'
Could she make this gesture fine
To the pit where labour grovels,
Mother hearts would cease to pine,
Weary men would wave their shovels.
All would cry with hope serene:
'Little children, bless the Queen!'
poem by Robert William Service
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Spartan Mother
My mother loved her horses and
Her hounds of pedigree;
She did not kiss the baby hand
I held to her in glee.
Of course I had a sweet nou-nou
Who tended me with care,
And mother reined her nag to view
Me with a critic air.
So I went to a famous school,
But holidays were short;
My mother thought me just a fool,
Unfit for games and sport.
For I was fond of books and art,
And hated hound and steed:
Said Mother, 'Boy, you break my heart!
You are not of our breed.'
Then came the War. The Mater said:
'Thank God, a son I give
To King and Country,'--well, I'm dead
Who would have loved to live.
'For England's sake,' said she, 'he died.
For that my boy I bore.'
And now she talks of me with pride.
A hero of the War.
Mother, I think that you are glad
I ended up that way.
Your horses and your dogs you had,
And still you have today.
Your only child you say you gave
Your Country to defend . . .
Dear Mother, from a hero's grave
I--curse you in the end.
poem by Robert William Service
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Weary
Some praise the Lord for Light,
The living spark;
I thank God for the Night
The healing dark.
When wearily I lie,
With aching sight,
With what thanksgiving I
Turn out the light!
When to night's drowsy deep
Serene I sink,
How glad am I to sleep,
To cease to think!
From care and fret set free,
In sweet respite,
With joy I peacefully
Turn out the light.
Lie down thou weary one,
And sink to rest;
Nay, grieve not for the sun,
The dark is best.
So greet with grateful breath
Eternal Night,
When soft the hand of Death
Turns out the light.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Swagman
Oh, he was old and he was spare;
His bushy whiskers and his hair
Were all fussed up and very grey
He said he'd come a long, long way
And had a long, long way to go.
Each boot was broken at the toe,
And he'd a swag upon his back.
His billy-can, as black as black,
Was just the thing for making tea
At picnics, so it seemed to me.
'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,
He told me. Then he shook his head,
And all the little corks that hung
Around his hat-brim danced and swung
And bobbed about his face; and when
I laughed he made them dance again.
He said they were for keeping flies -
"The pesky varmints" - from his eyes.
He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see
The best days of your life," said he.
"But days will come to bend your back,
And, when they come, keep off the track.
Keep off, young codger, if you can.
He seemed a funny sort of man.
He told me that he wanted work,
But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,
And he supposed he'd have to go
Another fifty mile or so.
"Nigh all my life the track I've walked,"
He said. I liked the way he talked.
And oh, the places he had seen!
I don't know where he had not been -
On every road, in every town,
All through the country, up and down.
"Young codger, shun the track," he said.
And put his hand upon my head.
I noticed, then, that his old eyes
Were very blue and very wise.
"Ay, once I was a little lad,"
He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.
I sometimes think: When I'm a man,
I'll get a good black billy-can
And hang some corks around my hat,
And lead a jolly life like that.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Taste And See
You, friend, would be hard-pressed, to find a day you aren’t blessed,
When you know the Lord above, Who fills our heart with joy and love,
Love that prompts you all your days, to lift up to our God real praise,
Praise of thanks lifted to the One, Who sent to men His Beloved Son.
You’d be hard-pressed too friend, to not find God around each bend,
Traveling down all paths of this life, in good times and those of strife.
Wherever you go, God will be there, when no one else, seems to care,
Even with your trials far behind, God is there providing peace of mind.
Friend, it’s very hard to reason why, The Lord above, one would deny,
When it was God, who loved us first, as we were sinners, at our worst,
And yet, He died for you and me, to grant sinners a new life, eternally,
While all you must do is to believe, and Eternal Life, you shall receive.
It was The Lord, who paid the price, when His Son became a sacrifice,
When we as sinners, were at enmity, with The Lord God of all Eternity,
The God above and Eternal Creator, became our Lord and our Savior,
When He displayed amazing Love, redeeming us with His shed Blood.
Today if you thirst and hunger friend, The Lamb of God I recommend,
Who died for the sin of every man, as core of God’s redemptive plan,
So taste and see, that God is good, and join His Eternal Brotherhood,
Looking forward to Eternal Life, with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
(Copyright ©09/2009)
The Day Magic Died
I sat down and cried, wondered why, magic died
Do you know of its demise,
Now I fear and dare not dream of miracles
And how we came about, and fables full of doubt
How could God let magic die and pass away
Now who will believe in Him who made the world in 6 days
All the devils sinners and dragons have gone to hell
All the martyrs, god's men and goodmen in heaven to dwell
Magic died, no more gimmicks tricks, miracles of wonderland
All the king's witches and wizards can't bring magic back again
Though I cry at the shores of reason, they're brushed away
By winds of logic and real, mathematics and steel
Come out and play with me, I would see the magic of your glee
but you say magic has died, I cannot play till we find to where he went
and why, magic come back, make us free to dream and hope for more
poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Beachcomber
When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I'll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea;
And in a little lonely isle that's far and far from men,
In peace and praise I'll spend the days the Gods allow to me.
For I am weary of a strife so pitiless and vain;
And in a far and fairy isle, bewilderingly bright,
I'll learn to know the leap and glow of rapture once again,
And welcome every living dawn with wonder and delight.
And there I'll build a swan-white house above the singing foam,
With brooding eaves, where joyously rich roses climb and cling;
With crotons in a double row, like wine and honeycomb,
And flame trees dripping golden rain, and palms pavilioning.
And there I'll let the wind and wave do what they will with me;
And I will dwell unto the end with loveliness and joy;
And drink from out the crystal spring, and eat from off the tree,
As simple as a savage is, as careless as a boy.
For I have come to think that Life's a lamentable tale,
And all we break our hearts to win is little worth our while;
For fame and fortune in the end are comfortless and stale,
And it is best to dream and rest upon a radiant isle.
So I'll blot out the bitter years of sufferance and scorn,
And I'll forget the fear and fret, the poverty and pain;
And in a shy and secret isle I'll be a man newborn,
And fashion life to heart's desire, and seek my soul again.
For when I come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I fondly hope the best of life will yet remain to me;
And so I'll burn my foolish books and break my futile pen,
And seek a tranced and tranquil isle, that dreams eternally.
I'll turn my back on all the world, I'll bid my friends adieu;
Unto the blink I'll leave behind what gold I have to give;
And in a jewelled solitude I'll mould my life anew,
And nestling close to Nature's heart, I'll learn at last . . . to live.
poem by Robert William Service
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My Inner Life
'Tis true my garments threadbare are,
And sorry poor I seem;
But inly I am richer far
Than any poet's dream.
For I've a hidden life no one
Can ever hope to see;
A sacred sanctuary none
May share with me.
Aloof I stand from out the strife,
Within my heart a song;
By virtue of my inner life
I to myself belong.
Against man-ruling I rebel,
Yet do not fear defeat,
For to my secret citadel
I may retreat.
Oh you who have an inner life
Beyond this dismal day
With wars and evil rumours rife,
Go blessedly your way.
Your refuge hold inviolate;
Unto yourself be true,
And shield serene from sordid fate
The Real You.
poem by Robert William Service
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Learn To Like
School yourself to savour most
Joys that have but little cost;
Prove the best of life is free,
Sun and stars and sky and sea;
Eager in your eyes to please,
Proffer meadows, brooks and trees;
Nature strives for your content,
Never charging you a cent.
Learn to love a garden gay,
Flowers and fruit in rich array.
Care for dogs and singing birds,
Have for children cheery words.
Find plain food and comfort are
More than luxury by far.
Music, books and honest friends
Outweigh golden dividends.
Love your work and do it well,
Scorning not a leisure spell.
Hold the truest form of wealth
Body fit and ruddy health.
Let your smile of happiness
Rustic peace serenely stress:
Home to love and heart to pray--
Thank your God for every day.
poem by Robert William Service
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Trixie
Dogs have a sense beyond our ken -
At least my little Trixie had:
Tail-wagging when I laughed, and when
I sighed, eyes luminously sad.
And if I planned to go away,
She'd know, oh, days and days before:
Aye, dogs I think are sometimes fey,
They seem to sense our fate in store.
Now take the case of old Tome Low;
With flowers each week he'd call on me.
Dear Trixie used to love him so,
With joyous jump upon his knee.
Yet when he wandered in one day,
Her hair grew sudden stark with dread;
She growled, she howled, she ran away . . .
Well, ten hours later Tom was dead.
Aye, dogs hear sounds we cannot hear,
And dogs see sights we cannot see;
And that is why I took the fear
That one day she would glare at me
As if a Shape cowered on my bead,
And with each hair on end she'd creep
Beneath the couch and whine with dread . . .
And so I've had her put to sleep.
Now Trixie's gone, the only one
Who loved me in my lonely life,
And here I wait, my race nigh run,
My ill too grievous for the knife.
My hand of ice she'll never lick,
My heedless mask she'll never see:
No heartbreak - just a needle prick. . . .
Oh, Doctor, do the same for me!
poem by Robert William Service
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