I suppose that My Good Old Man (Richard Dyer-Bennett, Burl Ives) qualifies as an old fart song. The anonymous author no doubt felt that one could be an old fart, even if dead. Maybe the fact that the woman does all the talking has something to do with it . . .

Where are you a'going, my good old man?
Where are you a'going, my honey, my lamb?
Hunting.

When are you coming back, my good old man?
When are you coming back, my honey, my lamb?
Saturday.

Well, what do you want for your supper, my good old man?
What do you want for your supper, my honey, my lamb?
Eggs.

Well, how many of 'em do you want, my good old man?
How many of 'em do you want, my honey, my lamb?
A bushel.

But a bushel will kill you, my good old man.
A bushel will kill you, my honey, my lamb.
I don't mind.

Well, where do you want to be buried, my good old man?
Where do you want to be buried, my honey, my lamb?
In the chimney corner.

But the ashes will fall on you, my good old man.
The ashes will fall on you, my honey, my lamb.
Don't care if they do.

Well, what are you going to do then, my good old man?
What are you going to do then, my honey, my lamb?
I'll haint ya.

But a haint can't haint a haint, my good old man.
A haint can't haint a haint, my honey, my lamb.