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.