WHEN underneath the brown dead grass My weary bones are laid, I hope I shall not see the glass At ninety in the shade.
I trust indeed that, when I lie Beneath the churchyard pine, I shall not hear that startling cry ```Thermom' is ninety-nine!''
If one should whisper through my sleep ``Come up and be alive,''
I'd answer - No, unless you'll keep The glass at sixty-five.
I might be willing if allowed To wear old Adam's rig, And mix amongst the city crowd Like Polynesian ``nig''.
Far better in the sod to lie, With pasturing pig above, Than broil beneath a copper sky -In sight of all I love!
Far better to be turned to grass To feed the poley cow, Than be the half boiled bream, alas, That I am really now!
For cow and pig I would not hear, And hoof I would not see;But if these items did appear They wouldn't trouble me.
For ah! the pelt of mortal man Weighs less than half a ton, And any sight is better than A sultry southern sun.
