From torrid heat to frigid cold
 I've rovered land and sea;
And now, with halting heart I hold
 My grandchild on my knee:
Yet while I've eighty years all told,
 Of moons she has but three.
 
She sleeps, that fragile miniature
 Of future maidenhood;
She will be wonderful, I'm sure,
 As over her I brood;
She is so innocent, so pure,
 I know she will be good.

My way I've won from woe to weal,
 And hard has been the fight;
Yet in my ingle-nook I feel
 A wondrous peace to-night;
And over me serenely steal
 Warm waves of love and light.

"What sloppy stuff!" I hear you say.
 "Give us a lusty song."
Alas! I'm bent and gnarled and grey,--
 My life may not be long:
Yet let its crown of glory be
 This child upon me knee.