The poem
We pitied him because He lived alone; His tiny cottage was His only own. His little garden had A wall around; Yet never was so glad A bit of ground.
It seemed to fair rejoice With flowers and fruit; With blooms it found a voice When ours was muts. It smiled without a pause In gracious glow: I think it was because He loved it so.
He had no news to read, No rent to pay; His vegetable need He plucked each day. His grateful garden gave Him ample fare; He lived without a crave, Without a care.
His bread and milk and tea Were all he bought; To us he seemed to be A sorry lot . . . But when we're dead and gone, With all our fuss, I guess he'll carry on, And laugh at us.