But ere they could perform this pious duty,
The dying man cried, “Hold! I’ve got my gruel!
Oh! for a glass of max! We’ve missed our booty;
Let me die where I am!” And as the fuel
Of Life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath—he from his swelling throat untied
A kerchief, crying, “Give Sal that!”—and died.