For the grey hairs appearing told her
Time left its shadow on her head.
Years twenty since the farmer's daughter
Left the scenes where her youth was spent,
Where Mississippi's mighty water
Rolls like a flood that will have vent.
Within that town broke out a fever,
Smiting alike the rich and poor;
'Twas typhus, grim Death's surest lever
To turn the churchyards o'er and o'er.