But I'm a-laying for that other Rooster.
I followed Father with the rake
The day he scythed the clover;
So green, he cut me, by mistake
And my heydays were over.
Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick!
We couldn't make him without paregoric.
I'm not averse to being dead,
But this I do despise,—
To have a tombstone at my head