His Funeral's To-morrow - song lyrics 
American Old-time song lyrics from www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
HIS FUNERAL'S TO-MORROW. Copyright, 1888, by B. W. Hitchcock. 
Little Johnny in the street Found a little toy, 'Twas a lump of dynamite, Johnny jumped with joy; Johnny played with it awhile, Then began to tire, And to see how it would burn He put it on the fire. 
Chorus. And his funeral's to-morrow. My poor heart aches with sorrow; Little Johnny had to git, But we've found a little bit, And we're going to plant him to-morrow. 
Mary had a little lamb, Mary's folks were poor, Hard they worked most every day To keep the wolf from door; Once a tramp came to the house With worn and weary feet. Found the lamb was just his size, And he the lamb did eat. 
Chorus. And his funeral's to-morrow, My poor heart aches with sorrow; Now that tramp for tender lamb Doesn't care a single-bit, And we're going to plant him to-morrow. 
Bridget built a little fire In the kitchen range, And she poured in kerosene, Which was nothing strange; Presently like dynamite Bomb-shells filled the room, Bridget, with a peaceful smile, Sailed the golden flume. 
Chorus. And her funeral's to-morrow, My poor heart aches with sorrow, On her tombstone, luckless one, They'll have the words "Well done," And we're going to plant her to-morrow. 
Mary never had baked before, But when she got wed She said to her husband dear, "I will bake some bread;" Mary baked a little cake, He to tea did sit, Took that small cake in his hand And ate every bit. 
Chorus. And his funeral's to-morrow, My poor heart aches with sorrow; Doctor said he had to kick, For he couldn't digest a brick. 
And we're going to plant him to-morrow. 
Little Billy had a mule, And it would not go, Billy whacked it with a stick, Cried "gee up," "gee whoa;" To drive that kicking mule along Billy he would tussle. He tried to stick a great big pin In that poor mule's bustle. 
Chorus. And his funeral's to-morrow, My poor heart aches with sorrow; The mule with his hind paw Paralyzed poor Billy's jaw, And we're going to plant him to-morrow. 
Once my sweetheart said to me, "Let me hear your voice, Sing to me a little song, Make my heart rejoice;" There we sat beside the fire, I gently cleared my throat, Then I let my sweet voice swell Upon a big top note. 
Chorus. And her funeral's to-morrow, My poor heart aches with sorrow; Now she is gone on high Painting rainbows in the sky, For we're going to plant her to-morrow.