Classic Poem

Old Gaffer, with his beard and smooth bald head,
Sits in his chair.
His little mug of water, and his bread,
Stand near him there.

Grey as a badger he: his brow is lined;
His features worn.
He 's left a world of cark and care behind,
Since he was born.

'T is over now, his eyesight soon must go;
His strength is done.
Death laid within the churchyard long ago
Grandchild and son.

A cat the smoke-grimed hut with Gaffer shares —
Upon the stove
All day he sleeps. He too is old, nor cares
From thence to move.

The old man still plaits shoes, with fingers slow,
From bark of birch.
His wants are few, his greatest joy to go
Into God's church.

He stands within the porch, against the wall,
Mutt'ring his prayers.
A loyal child, he thanks the Lord for all
Life's griefs and cares.

Cheery he lives, — with one foot in the grave, —
In his dark hole.
Whence does he draw the strength that keeps him brave,
Poor peasant soul?