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AT SEVENTY TWO I ’m old and lame, my head is white

As Mary ’s little lamb; My proper name is Samuel Hill, But most folk call me Sam.

I head the list for butter-fat.

By Susan ’8 registry,

And every beast about my place Gives down more milk than she.

I’m old, so old, I can’t lay holt As once I did, I’m told,

I fain would rise to Nebone’s mount As Moses did of old

I’ll lay this poor warped body down, Climb my big stack of hay,

And soar on eagles pinions wings To realms of endless day.

But e’er before I take my flight, Answer me, I implore, _ Is there? Oh is there seaweed on Fair Canaan’s happy shore?

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Soda and slag will need;

Perchance I ’ll plow the milky way, And saw it for green feed.

Perhaps, Road Master, I may be, That pays a good commission;

I’ll claim both sides of the river of life And lease it out for fishin ’.

I’ll stretch my leg and with my staff I’ll keep my cream well stirred;

Heaven were no heaven for me without A first-class dairy herd.

The bull that’s in the zodiac,

At my command will be, —

I’ll milk and strain and separate To all eternity.

Samuel Hill