There's drought in the fields, and drought in my gullet!
I would that I sat in a boundless tank
Of claret and soda, and drank and drank!
My thirst with Pantagruel's own would rank—
Gargantuan draughts alone may lull it!
A shandygaff "chute" à la Boyton would suit,
Or of Pilsener lager a Nile or Niagara—
Would that it through my œsophagus sank!
I'd long to be Nansen, that bold Norwegian,
Who's off to the north like a sailor-troll;