That whiskey-jug! For dry or wet,
My tale will need its help, you bet!
We made for the desert, she and I,
Though life was loathsome, and love a lie,
And she gazed on me with her glorious eye,
But all the same,—I let her die!
For why?—there was barely water for one
In the small canteen, and of provender, none!
A splendid snake, with an emerald scale,
Slid before us along the trail,