Have played the deuce with my gastric juice,
It's 'got no work to do.'
"I've come o'er ridges of burning sand
That gasp for the cooling rain,
Where the orb of day with his blinding ray
Glares down on the salt-bush plain
* Flour.
"O'er steaming valley, lagoon, and marsh
Where the Sun strikes down 'till, phew!
The very eels in the water feels