When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass

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.