Of fearless pioneer—
He was, in point of fact, a joint
Who played his life for beer.
Smith sat upon the shanty floor
With blazing eyes and brain,
While, from the sand, the impish band
Of fantods sprang again:
[64] ]They mocked him with a phantom pot,
They laughed and lured and lied—
“A pint! or I,” he howled, “must die