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leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes;

      And then they look'd around them and despair'd,

      And none to be the sacrifice would choose;

      At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,

      But of materials that much shock the Muse—

      Having no paper, for the want of better,

      They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.

      The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed,

      In silent horror, and their distribution

      Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded,

      Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;

      None in particular had sought or plann'd it,

      'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution,

      By which none were permitted to be neuter—

      And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.

      He but requested to be bled to death:

      The surgeon had his instruments, and bled

      Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath,

      You hardly could perceive when he was dead.

      He died as born, a Catholic in faith,

      Like most in the belief in which they 're bred,

      And first a little crucifix he kiss'd,

      And then held out his jugular and wrist.

      The surgeon, as there was no other fee,

      Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;

      But being thirstiest at the moment, he

      Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins:

      Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,

      And such things as the entrails and the brains

      Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow—

      The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

      The sailors ate him, all save three or four,

      Who were not quite so fond of animal food;

      To these was added Juan, who, before

      Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could

      Feel now his appetite increased much more;

      'T was not to be expected that he should,

      Even in extremity of their disaster,

      Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

      'T was better that he did not; for, in fact,

      The consequence was awful in the extreme;

      For they, who were most ravenous in the act,

      Went raging mad—Lord! how they did blaspheme!

      And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd,

      Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream,

      Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,

      And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.

      Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction,

      And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows;

      And some of them had lost their recollection,

      Happier than they who still perceived their woes;

      But others ponder'd on a new dissection,

      As if not warn'd sufficiently by those

      Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,

      For having used their appetites so sadly.

      And next they thought upon the master's mate,

      As fattest; but he saved himself, because,

      Besides being much averse from such a fate,

      There were some other reasons: the first was,

      He had been rather indisposed of late;

      And that which chiefly proved his saving clause

      Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,

      By general subscription of the ladies.

      Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,

      But was used sparingly,—some were afraid,

      And others still their appetites constrain'd,

      Or but at times a little supper made;

      All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd,

      Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead:

      At length they caught two boobies and a noddy,

      And then they left off eating the dead body.

      And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,

      Remember Ugolino condescends

      To eat the head of his arch-enemy

      The moment after he politely ends

      His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea

      'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends,

      When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty,

      Without being much more horrible than Dante.

      And the same night there fell a shower of rain,

      For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth

      When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain

      Men really know not what good water 's worth;

      If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,

      Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,

      Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,

      You 'd wish yourself where Truth is—in a well.

      It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer

      Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,

      Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,

      And when they deem'd its moisture was complete

      They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher

      Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet

      As a full pot of porter, to their thinking

      They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking.

      And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,

      Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd;

      Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,

      As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd

      To beg the beggar, who could not rain back

      A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd

      To taste of heaven—If this be true, indeed

      Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

      There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,

      And with them their two sons, of whom the one

      Was more robust and hardy to the view,

      But he died early; and when he was gone,

      His

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