When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass
When underneath the brown dead grassMy weary bones are laid,I hope I shall not see the glassAt ninety in the shade.I trust indeed that, when I lieBeneath 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 keepThe glass at sixty-five.I might be willing if allowedTo wear old Adam’s rig,And mix amongst the city crowdLike 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 grassTo 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 appearThey wouldn’t trouble me.For ah! the pelt of mortal manWeighs less than half a ton,And any sight is better thanA sultry southern sun.