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.