The poem
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