Of thirst!”—and so he died.
Then all the tribe of whiskered wits
That nourishes up North,
From rub-a-dubs and frowsy pubs
Like one gay ghoul came forth;
And Blastus painted on a slab
A dead marine, reversed,
And wrote, the knave, beside his grave,
“Hic! jacet. Died of thirst.”
And still, around the shanty bar,