Old Pete Muses

Old Pete Parraday, by his hut door
Sits him in the sunlight and cons the
missing ’o’er.
“Another Christmas Day,” he says, “been
an’ come an’ gone.
An’ still ole Pete, the Pensioner, he seems
to carry on.
One by one they drops off an’ goes be-
neath the ground;
But ’ere’s me an’ me rheumatiz still
a-kickin’ round.
’Obblin’ round me garden patch, ’obblin’
to the mail;
Eighty-five come April nex’; an’ still sane
an’ ’ale.

“There’s ole Ben an’ ’Arry gone, an’ ole
Sam Bree,
An’ now there’s only two of us—George
Jones an’ me.
Ben ’e went an’ died in town; ’e was a
one to roam—
Went an’ snuffed ’mid strangers in a ole
man’s ’ome.
’Arry ’opped it in ’is ’ut, there all on
’is own;
Sort of ’ermit, ’Arry was, glad to die
alone.
Sam slipped, an’ found ’is-self beneath a
fallin’ tree;
Youngish sort of death for ’im, an’ ’im
eighty-three.

“Funny ’ow the world goes: all the ups
an’ downs;
Funny with a man’s luck: some gits all
the frowns,
Some gits all the smiles from Fate. ’Arry,
Ben an’ Sam,
All three was younger men nor wot I am.

All three was stronger men, healthier
men nor me;
Yet I’ve seen ’em all out, beaten all the
three;
Seed ’em took an’ carted off an’ planted
underground,
An’ ’ere’s me, with frail health still
a-’obblin’ round.

“Luck . . . Maybe they’re better off—
’Arry, Sam an’ Ben,
Done with care an’ worryin’ over
younger men.
Thinkin’ what’ll come to them—each
mother’s lad;
Thinkin’ of their agony when earth goes
mad.
Sittin’ ’ere to read the news, ’fore the
bright days fade,
Worryin’ an’ broodin’ o’er the mess that
man has made.
An’ oft an’ oft I thanks the Lord ole Peter
ain’t no pup.
An’ all I ask is let me sleep afore the
world blows up.”